What God has taught me...

in parenting a prodigal could fill a book, let alone a blog post. I will try to keep it short, but long-winded writing is an apt descriptor of my style. Ergh.

First, God has taught me that I am a bigger sinner than I think I am. Yes, it has been said that parenting gives us a glimpse of God's love for us, but more than that, parenting gives me a glimpse of the offense of my sin against my Heavenly Father.

Am I the only one who chafes at having done this and that and those things too for the child who then rises up in ungrateful stance and metaphorically spits on my provision? Or to have counseled and advised and warned and pled with the child from a word of wisdom and experience only to have him do exactly the opposite thing? Or to have forgiven a child of certain offense and see him repeatedly return to the grievous thing?

So incredibly offensive, is it not?

And God nods His head in knowing mutuality.

When we could talk about Bill Cosby without cringing, one could credit him with a line from his parenting video where he describes that his mom cursed him with the words, "I hope you have a child just like you!" And then one day he did.

I am reminded of Genesis 3:16, "To the woman he said, 'I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to your children.'"

I understand that the word "childbearing" does not just mean the physical act of labor at birth but has an extensive enough meaning to include child-rearing. And rightly so, I suppose. Because modern medical science has the elixir of an epidural for the physical act of labor, but there is no anesthesiologist who rushes in while you are dealing with an angry teen shouting hurtful words at you to say, "Here, let me ease the pain of those contractions." Contractions of the heart no less painful and often more so than the ones that contorted our faces at 8 centimeters.

Just today I heard Dan Doriani speaking on work and faith. He mentioned that the Genesis 3 curse is on the ground, not on work itself. Meaning, the ground we are to work will give us resistance all our days. Certainly, the work of parenting meets resistance in one form or another all of our days.

Second, I have learned how God's kindness is intended to draw us to repentance, Romans 2:4. This verse was always a bit puzzling to me, particularly as it follows after Romans 1 and Paul's declaration of how men are storing up God's wrath for themselves. But look at its context here:

"You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.
Now we know that God’s judgment against those who do such things is based on truth. So when you, a mere human being, pass judgment on them and yet do the same things, do you think you will escape God’s judgment?

Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?

Tied to the first thing I have learned is this second thing--God saved me. And I was not deserving of His salvation at all. Rather I was entirely deserving of His wrath. But His kindness, forbearance, and patience with me, for me, did its work of leading me to repentance. In other words, if God can save a big, old, ugly sinner like me, then I can trust in His kindness, forbeareance, and patience with my prodigal son.

Not only so but the model of God's kindness, forbearance, and patience is mine to follow in how I relate to my son. Showing grace to him is not a get out of jail free card that ignores the necessity of discipline or personal responsibility. Showing grace to him must flow out of the grace that God has first shown me.

So when he sins and sins often, against me or others, my wrath is ineffective. Responding firmly and boldly with truth, with patience, and with thoughtfulness to natural and/or necessary consequences demonstrates a forbearance and kindness intended to draw him to repentance versus a shrieking, hollering, irrationally angry mom slamming things around and making statements that land you in the halls of ridiculous parenting alumnae. (I have certainly exhibited the latter part of that sentence more than I care to admit.)

Third, I have learned to value the smallest increments of relationship and to be grateful for them as a gift from God during this hard period of prodigality. The "it could be worse" is not only true for our own relationship--and there have been periods of utterly worse-ness--but my heart is quite sensitized to the pain I see in other parents grieving for their prodigals. And it could definitely be worse.

As such, I do value the moments of tension free conversation, the opening up of his ideas and thoughts to me without guardedness and hostility, or the exchange of humor and mutual respect. I am grateful for the "more" moments of peace compared to the "less" moments our home as known. I am more keenly aware of how my tone and facial expression can either set up a moment for blessing or doom it before it really begins.

In truth, realizing how much I valued these small things with this son made me aware of how I had taken them for granted with my other sons. Rectifying that relational deficit on my part has enriched my relationships with them.

To sum it up, my son's prodigality has been key to my own sanctification. Full of valleys, yes, but there are also moments on small rises, hilltops, where I see and am grateful for how God is working in me even as I trust Him to work in my son's life. God truly does use our sorrows and griefs for the working out of our good and His glory.

Learning from a mom who has gone before....

Now that is a treasure in today's world. To sit and talk with a mom who is bald-faced honest about her kids' mess-ups and screw-ups and yet still lives out the gospel before them and has an unshakeable faith in what God is doing--THAT is a treasure.

I know one mom in my circle who has done that with me. She mentored me when my kids were young and she still mentors me now that my sons are older. Her love for the Lord and His work in her kids' lives is convicting and encouraging to me. I am grateful for the treasure her words and prayers are in my life. She is a unique gift.

Gradually as I share my own story with other moms, I am finding strong, persevering women who are first not ashamed of the gospel and therefore, not ashamed of discussing the sins of their children with an eye to the redemption of Christ.

These moms love their kids, believe in their kids, have done all they know to do for their kids, and are sorely grieved when their kids make really crummy choices and so then suffer the even crummier consequences of their choices. But these moms do not give up. Because they have chosen to not build a personal reputation upon the successes of their kids, they are not devastated by the failures. Instead, these moms have fixed their eyes upon Jesus, knowing Him to be the author of their own faith, and the One who completes what He has begun.

These moms are the ones who are restorative in their words of encouragement to me. And I talk with them every chance that I get. From them I receive perspective for the battle in front of me, the battle for my kid's soul, the battle against a seductive world, and the battle of my own sin. With them I have freedom to both laugh and cry as shared sorrow becomes shared strength.

But back to the previous discussion, I do not see moms like this in the blogging world. Maybe it is the cynic in me, but honestly, I think moms today do not blog about the mess-ups not out of some sacrosanct privacy of their kid, but because to blog about the mess-ups invites a criticism of our parenting.

There. I said it. Not popular I suppose, but it is what I think.

There is a party line that reads like this, "If I have kids who live by faith and respond rightly to Christ, it is only by the grace of God, not because of my parenting. I am wholly imperfect." Yes, I agree. But the outworking of the unstated is that we believe our parenting does make a big, fat difference in how our kids turn out.

If we did not believe that, then why do we spend so much time, energy, money, prayers, tears, sweat, blah, blah, blah, on our parenting? For the most part it is an all-consuming investment of a significant portion of our lives. Is it not?

And I 'm not trying to set up some argument here that our parenting does not matter. I think it does. But the line between the impact of our parenting and the life results in our kids gets blurred a lot of the time and gets really blurred when a life screw-up is in view.

Cue the substantial Biblical evidence of 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Chronicles where kings who followed the laws of the Lord had sons who did evil and kings who did evil in the sight of the Lord had sons who followed the laws of the Lord. In other words, if it was a hard and fast principle that good Christian parents always produced good Christian children, then we wouldn't even have the story of the prodigal son, right?

Why then does parenting by the Book matter so much?

1) Because God has commanded us to tell our children of His word and His works. (Deuteronomy 6:4-6:7; Psalm 78)
2) Because God has commanded a parenting relationship in His law. (Exodus 20:12)
3) Because wisdom for life is only found in His word. (Proverbs 1:1-9)
4) Because a loving parent disciplines his/her children. (Hebrews 12:5-11)

So, how does one wrap this up? Well, I do not believe we abdicate our Christian responsibility when it comes to our kids in sharing our faith. Our parenting does matter. We must persist in it according to God's word, humbly dealing with our own sin and failures, while humbly dealing with our kids' sins and failures.

But I think we must also remember that His work in our kids' lives will ultimately show His glory over ours. So when the inevitable sins and failures come to light, we need not fear for our "reputation." With an eye fixed on Christ, with a heart for the beauty of the gospel, we can see our kids' sins as we do ours, in view of the redemption that Christ has purchased for us.

I wish that someone else was writing about this....

so I could learn from her.

The discussion of late has been on where are the mature women writers these days? When my boys were younger the blog world was filled with moms writing about their kids. Of course, back then, everyone had nicknames AKA code names for their kids because even though we were on social media we were suspect of it. Naming our real names or our kids' real names would most assuredly bring a stalker to our cul-de-sac.

Although, anyone who knew us in person and knew about our blog knew exactly who our kids were so those code names were really just figments of privacy. When it came to telling all the silly and all the fool that our kids did, our aggravations with and about, well, privacy and discretion were somewhat code words as well.

However, as those same kids moved past toddler years or elementary school years and gasp! began to read. Or as the blog we were writing became a bit more well known by the friends in our close circle who shared it with their friends in another state who told their friends in yet other states, well, then it was like finding out that your Christmas letter was on regular rotation through your grandmother's hair salon and it all seemed a bit TOO public.

Because, there always came the day when the kids featured in our clever, humorous, pithy blog posts found out that we were writing mostly about them (because where else does a mom find her fodder?) and they objected to having their lives shared on social media. How EmBarrAssing! Mom!

That is at least one scenario of what has driven the now mature moms of older kids into writing-not-any-more-land.

I think though, that there is another scenario. I think that for the most part every mom has her story of poop where it shouldn't have been and stomach bug disasters; of handling sibling rivalry and tears over a game loss; of funny moments at the kitchen table and aggravation at the messy rooms. These are the nearly shared experiences of parenting in the younger years. These are the experiences that we expect to happen and when they do, we read these events and empathetically nod our heads with her and comment something like, "I know just what you mean, sister!"

But when it comes to sharing the unpleasantries and difficulties of the older childhood years that maybe, perhaps, we think reflect badly upon us--is this what causes us to stop talking? Do we fear that if we speak out on the dining room table arguments at our house that there will be no one to say, "I know just what you mean, sister!"?

My son has rejected God. My daughter is pregnant. My daughter is addicted to drugs. My son is failing school. My daughter was caught shoplifting. My son was kicked off of the team.

These are not the things we "expected" to happen while living in the younger years. Our expectation is that these precious children in our home will grow up to embrace the values and beliefs of us, their adoring, loving parents. Sure, we will deal with sin. Everyone deals with sin. But when it comes down to it, we do not expect that their sin will rival our own.

We may assent to the truth that each child must make his/her own response of faith and therefore, responses of choice, but I think we live out in expectation that because we have poured the gospel, the catechism, the worship, the hymns, the preaching, the family worship, the devotions, the youth trips, the Sunday lunch discussion over the pastor's sermon, into them that of course, of course, of course, they will make the response of faith in God. And from that response will pour out nothing but good, solid, righteous fruit. The sins of the world, of the "faithless," will not touch these.

And then it does.

There is so much here. I can't write anymore on this right now. I will write more later.

Why would you write about a prodigal child?

I had to ask myself this before I started these blog posts because the discussion at hand was on the privacy and need for discretion related to our older children. So I thought about why I would write about a prodigal child.

1) I am not the only mom living with this reality.
2) I wish that someone else was writing about this so that I could learn from her.
3) In the absence of someone else writing about it, I decided that I would focus on writing what God has been teaching me in this reality.
4) I cannot ignore this reality with myself or with my child. If there was ever a call for honesty regarding the realities of eternity, it is now.
5) I love my son, and in all things I undertake to treat him with respect and love. Bold truth spoken in love is taking its form this way, for now.
6) Do not presume that I have told all things. I understand discretion.
7) I desire for God to be glorified in this reality though it reveal my many sins and errors. God will be glorified in my son's life whether in salvation or in judgment.

I imagine #7 bothers you the most. More about that later.

First, so I know that I am not the only mom living with this reality. But as I alluded to in my first post, mom get togethers, no matter the age of your child, focus more on the accomplishments and transcript building achievements than they do on the how do you say, "dirty laundry" events of life.

Usually, if I hear from a mom who also has a prodigal child, she is typically much older than I and the child is a grown adult who has left the home and is living on his or her own and is not going to church. About half of those conversations then also include the phrase, "But I know she/he accepted Christ as a child so I am praying that she/he will one day return to the church."

Honestly, I do not know how to respond to this statement. While yes, I know specifically of a time when this son told me that he prayed to receive Christ as His Lord and Savior, I have witnessed multiple life years of seeing no fruit, no repentance, no desire to grow, distaste for things of God, spurning of values and beliefs, and clearly spoken statements to the effect that he does not believe.

Now of course, I am not some hard-boiled pessimist who never hopes. I am, however, a realist when it comes to God's Word and what He says does or does not demonstrate life in Him. I regularly wrestle with the parable of the sower, wondering if seed that falls on the rocky places and springs up quickly, then withers because it has no root is a definite only verdict. My wrestling leads me to prayer and in prayer I ask God to prepare the soil of this son's heart, for I know that constantly His word, His seed, goes out. I do not believe in a complacent trust for a long past VBS prayer of current zero result. For even if said prayer was authentic, I am praying for a life that demonstrates the work of the Holy Spirit.

The hard part always circles back to my own sin as it is easy to fall into pious responses that communicate lack of love for him, i.e. holier than thou conversation does not create a winsome witness. So while not every interaction of words and actions between us will DECLARE the gospel, "I am cooking this dinner for you because God has provided spaghetti for us sinners tonight just as God has provided Jesus for salvation. Will you believe? Take and eat!" Every interchange of words and actions between us should declare the gospel, "Supper is ready. Let's pray."

Loving him by serving. Praying for his day. Asking about his day. Offering help with his school and activities. Being present when he talks. Appreciating his art and music. Even disciplining him when necessary with grace. All interactions of words and actions are to declare the gospel. That is the hard to live out work of the day.

I know that I am not the only mom living with this reality of a prodigal child. To that mom, I am listening. How are you living out the day to day gospel before your child? What will you share with me in how to persevere?

Sundays are hard....

Sundays used to be hard because getting out the door on time with all the people dressed, cleaned, fed, and Ready To Worship The Lord! was a task that brought all of hell's minions to bear upon every.little.detail. Shoes were missing. Pants were dirty. Shirts were not ironed. Someone was having a stomachache that required 38 minutes in the bathroom. Cinnamon rolls burned. The toilet was stopped up.

It was perfectly normal that by the time everyone got into the car, we were all grumpy, grousing, and in need of new salvation.

I kid, I know once saved, always saved. But do you know what I mean?

All my boys are older now and responsible for their own maintenance and upkeep for the most part. I left the business of wiping noses and bottoms many, many years ago. They do their own ironing. If they are wearing dirty pants, it is their own responsibility. And sometimes they get to church wearing tennis shoes because the church ones could not be found. I decided years ago that the battle of fashion was not the hill to die upon. As long as the "unpresentable" parts are covered, match or not, we will, however, be ON TIME.

The boys even make breakfast for the family as part of the Sunday morning carousel. I am all for that part of a Sabbath rest!

Sundays are hard in that as I'm getting ready in the morning I know that it will be a day of weeping. Weeping as the gospel is presented. Weeping as the hymns and songs are sung. Weeping as the words of God's grace preached to my soul reach deep into my own understanding while at the same time reminding me that as of yet, a son whom I love, does not hear nor see nor love its beauty for himself.

We sit on the back row of the church not because of my weeping, although that has become its own gift of sorts to not cause overmuch distraction. We sit on the back row because of all the wide shoulders of growing boys that do not fit on the shorter pews. It is important to us to sit as a family. And by all rights, we are a family by name, mailing address, and tax returns. But we are not a family in that one as of yet, a son whom I love, only participates in the liturgy of faith as an external rite.

So I weep. The affirmation of faith, the corporate confession, the words of encouragement, the pastoral prayer, all pieces and parts of what gives my own soul rest and strength for the week also brings pain. And pain brings prayer. Prayer for these words to not bounce off of a heart but to penetrate it. Prayer for the preaching seeds to sink deep roots into soil prepared by the Holy Spirit and not be choked out by life thorns or eaten by birds. Prayer that the most musical of sons will hear with his heart the hymns of faith.

In the denomination I grew up in, my prayer life didn't happen until the altar call when I fervently called out for someone, anyone, to please go speak to the pastor so that we could get to the restaurant on time. Now, my prayer life begins the moment I walk through the door.

I believe in the efficacy of the preached word. I believe in the privilege of corporate worship. I believe no matter what hell's minions might bring to bear on the details of getting out the door on a Sunday morning that every grace moment given with this son whom I love is potentially the grace moment of faith.

"You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent. LORD, my God, I will praise you forever." 

Psalm 30:11-12

Living with a prodigal....

In this day and age I think almost everything has to have a caveat to prevent misunderstanding. And then of course, even a caveat can go wrong and require its own clarity. Oh vicious cycle of confusion!

But for the sake of what I am writing, I am defining "prodigal" as in Luke 15, "The Parable of the Prodigal Son." Meaning: I have a son, whom I love, who has rejected our family's beliefs, values, and faith; and who if he could, would, like the younger son of Luke 15, take his inheritance and live for himself in "reckless living."

Now, lest you think every day is fraught with hostility and gospel shouting sessions, it is not. Most days in fact, this son is polite, respectful, funny, and helpful. Most days he does not walk around glaring and declaring, "I have rejected God. Get out of my way!" I have come to mark those days as common grace.

But on the un-most days, his words and life practices declare a reversal of how Jesus taught his disciples to pray, "Our Father who is in heaven, hallowed be Your Name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done. On earth as it is in heaven." His prayer more closely resembles the following: If there is a heaven, great is my name. My kingdom come. My will be done. On earth as it is in my imagination."

As you might imagine, when that prayer has played on the reel in his head enough times, when life in the "kingdom as we know it called the home" does not go as he imagines it should, then there is quite definitely a stormy time for all. This reverse kingdom situation extends into school life and his views on entertainment, into his spare time activities and into his views for his future. He endures authority only for the idea that eventually he believes he will live without any at all.

On either set of days, with varying degrees of success, I have learned, painfully, that I am responsible for how I live out the gospel before him. Constantly my own sin of my own views of "personal kingdom" are confronted as I live under authority. When I complain about things not going my way, do I remember to think and so acknowledge that God's sovereignty in the situation is actually my best place? When I am frustrated by another's actions or choices, do I remember that I am responsible to forgive as I have been forgiven? When I am discontented with the providence full on my plate, do I confess that what I have is good and sufficient because God has provided?

I'm in the moms' group that is quick to say how much I have learned about the love of God for us once I had children. Yes, me too! I've learned so much. <insert motherly glow>

But the other side of that group's experience is how much I have learned about my own sin and God's forgiveness and grace for me once I had children. And while I would never, ever, never, have thought that living with a prodigal son would be for my best, it is. A small part of the ongoing redemption picture is that as God works through all things, these hard things, He is growing me in prayer, in practice, in thanksgiving, in earnestness for the gospel, in humility of grace, and in conviction of personal sin.

A New York minute is too slow when I think how quickly I would take all that I have learned for myself to see my son believe. But for right now, God has not given that choice. I can, however, rest in, "The Lord is not slow to fulfill His promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance." (2 Peter 3:9)

Yes, Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief.

My name is Lisa, and I have a rebellious teenaged son.....

If there were a support group for moms like me, I would be at every meeting making that same statement. I would weep with others as I have wept alone, and I would share the bits and pieces of hope that break into the darkness even as I would listen to their own glimpses of hoped for better. I know the intimate ache of a son who does not find delight in the Lord.

Unfortunately I have not found such a support group. Instead I have discovered that if or when I talk about my son's rejection of the Lord, it usually makes other people uncomfortable. Hard news does not find a place at the table of announcing accomplishments, awards, and achievements. In a community where pride in our sons and daughters is its own virtue, a difficult statement is a frowned upon indiscretion.

No Christian mom or dad wants to believe such a thing. How could it possibly be true? Haven't our kids been raised in the church? They are at youth group every Sunday night. They attend discipleship groups and serve on far and near mission trips. They not only know the answers to the Shorter Catechism, but they can speak the questions with you as well. And, if quizzed, they can even take you step by step in how to be saved.

Yes, he can for the most part. But he has also said quite clearly that he wants nothing to do with the Lord because he does not believe. He has said, even respectfully, that he only attends church and its functions because he knows it is a "rule" of the house. He admits that once this "God-thing" sounded all right, but now he states that it is just not for him. His life and practice do not demonstrate repentance.

You try telling someone those things in person and see if the main reaction isn't a tight lipped grimace accompanied by a sad shake of the head. All the while avoiding eye contact with you as they think how to change the conversation quickly. Ah, but first throw out a Bible verse that will solve it...."Well you know, God says, 'Train up a child in the way he will go and when he is old he will not depart from it.'"

Leaving me once again to consider if his rejection is my fault. Is my own struggle with sin lived out before him so devoid of victory that all he sees is hypocrisy and weakness? Has my own painful sanctification caused him to think it is hopeless to overcome sin? Has my lack of mercy and grace with others, including him, caused him to doubt the mercy and grace of God? Yes, yes, and yes. I am certain that on more than one point my lack, my debt, my trespass, my sin has been of negative value in his life.

However, I am equally sure he has seen and witnessed my confession and repentance when I have sinned against him and others. He has heard my humility and thanksgiving for forgiveness of sin. He has even known and albeit grudgingly admitted receiving mercy and grace personally at my hand. Still he confesses rejection of faith.

We have had all, ALL, the theological discussions on faith, sin, salvation, repentance, forgiveness, and grace. We have gone through the -tion words: justification, redemption, sanctification, propitiation, and glorification. We have answered to the best of our ability hard questions of "Why did God let sin into the garden? Why did Jesus have to die? Why does God allow bad things to happen? Why doesn't God answer all my prayers? How do we know that we are right and the Buddhists are wrong?" My den could be renamed the Areopagus for the number of apologetics sessions the walls have heard. Still he confesses rejection of the Lord.

I know how one is saved--by the regeneration of the Holy Spirit who brings the spiritually dead to spiritual life, giving them faith to respond with belief. I confess the sovereignty of God in election. I believe in the promise of the covenant that these things are for you and your children. Yet I have a child, a child of the covenant, a baptized child of the covenant, who lives as a covenant breaker.

What then have I learned in these four plus years of soul's travail?
1) The Holy Spirit is the One who convicts of sin and gives spiritual life
2) God is sovereign in salvation
3) Each one is responsible and accountable for his or her response to God
4) I cannot save my son AND I am responsible in word and life to witness to him the gospel of Jesus Christ as I have opportunity and breath in my body
5) Knowing he is saved by faith alone in Christ alone by grace alone will be a joy beyond measure, BUT I cannot make his salvation my idol

Perhaps he will one day believe what he sang as a little boy, "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know." Perhaps the Lord will in His mercy grant him the repentance that leads to faith. Perhaps the lived memory of Bible verses and church sermons and youth group talks and our den apologetics will one day be a part of a glorious awakening of his spirit. Perhaps one day.

But until that day, it is hard and it is grievous and there is no easy answer. Do not be a part of a community that pretends or ignores or pithily dismisses the ache of moms like me who just like you love their children and pray fervently for their entrance into the kingdom.

There will be more to say.

A grief hangover...

is not a real thing. At least I don't think that it is. Nevertheless, it is what I'm going to call the last couple of days.

Typically leading up to a milestone of hurt, the days before The Day are the worst. The anticipation that just possibly your heart will not be able to process the immensity of hurt on The Day can put all sorts of pinch into your margin. The mere idea of sorrow's depth threatens to drown you before there is even the first real sprinkle.

Then when The Actual Day does happen and life's blessed normality continues: the sun comes up, stupid cat vomits, meals must be made, traffic lights still work, laundry has to be rebooted, and so on, you realize that the milestone of hurt was really only within your perspective. No one else is walking around waiting for the tsunami to occur.

And that is pretty much the cycle for the rest of your life and for all of the milestones of hurt. But everything that has been building inside of you and your perspective for however many days preceding has to go somewhere. Usually some benign event lances the boil and allows the tears that are always there to flow.

However, if there is no lancing, no release of the pent up-ness, it is like a grief hangover. Ever so slowly the weight in your heart and head dissipates but life's gravity is greater in the days after. Sensitive to sounds and sunshine and even smells, you wish for a dark room to allow "it" all to go away. But there is no dark room of solitude so you walk and think and talk more slowly. You process thoughts at a modem dial up speed. If you process thoughts at all.

And then it is over. It is gone. And you have almost 365 days before that milestone looms again.

Constantly I explain and hear from people in the midst of grief this process. It is confusing and distracting and distancing for many of us. Our lives are continually intertwined with those who did not know the one we miss, the one we grieve, and not wanting to be the Downer Debby, we do not always do a good job of explaining just why we are, well, lacking in those days.

Those who grieve, who mourn, who weep, all struggle for the words that describe it and even when another's description is sorely lacking, we somehow manage to understand. We meant what they knew. The indescribable has a tactile reality in our lives.

Reading Revelation's promise of God the Father saying that "It is done," in reference to how He will wipe every tear and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, never more do I understand that sweet promise than in the days of grief hangover.

I have reason to keep walking, to keep living the days from now until then, so that I will hear Him say, "It is done."

Turning 21...

personally was one of those not to be forgotten days. And not because I embarked on some drunk fest. I was too much of a goody-goody two shoes in those days.

No, turning 21 was a big day because it began with getting my hair updone so that my bridal portrait session could occur--of which I was incredibly awkward to the point that the photographer finally turned the radio on so that I would "loosen up" and smile. There was no special meal that day because my afternoon was taken up with having two of my wisdom teeth cut out. I ended my 21st birthday with ice packs and pain killers. A truly stellar type of day, huh?

Eighty days later I got married. Thirty days after that we flew to Korea and lived there for about 300 days. But it was April 3, 1994, about 1, 316 days after my 21st birthday that I gave birth to a firstborn son named James.

He was the firstborn son of a firstborn son of a firstborn son. (Only a few days after becoming engaged to Jim, my future mother-in-law informed me that I was only going to have sons, and did I know that?) James weighed 9 lbs and was 21 1/2 inches long. He was born at 1:58 a.m. on Easter Sunday morning, right before daylight savings time. And as far as we knew he was perfect.

James' life though was measured in days that added up to only 926 days, a mere 2 1/2 years. It was not enough time for us to know him as a preschooler or a first grader. We did not receive his first report card or sign him up for sports. We did not get to see him learn fractions (although personally I have to kind of count that as a mercy seeing as how I still struggle with them) or cursive writing. We did not experience middle school with him (again, perhaps another huge mercy!) or watch an eighth grade graduation. We did not fret over the peer pressure of high school, take him to get his permit or driver's license, watch him go on a first date, take a girl to prom, or visit colleges with him. We did not see a high school graduation, a summer job application, the purchase of a first car, or help him pack up for his first year of college. We do not know the joy of having him home for the holidays and hearing all about what college is like.

And today, we will not celebrate 21 years with him.

Grief for a parent in the loss of a child does not end because the life milestones do not end. At every subsequent year, at every birthday, I think about what James might have done or might be doing. As his brothers come behind him and meet those milestones, I am bittersweetly aware that with the milestone, it is my first when it should have been my second or third or fourth.

So what might we have done on his 21st birthday? I have no idea.

What will I do on his 21st birthday today? I will remember how he burst into our world that day, in those early morning hours, to the cheers of the nurse and the congratulations of the doctor. I'll remember his daddy's proud and awed face when he first looked on his firstborn son. I'll remember the call to the grandparents at 3:00 a.m. because we couldn't wait to tell them that he was here, the first grandchild on both sides and everyone was fine. I'll remember the meal they brought us afterwards and how Jim and I devoured every last bite because we were starving! I'll remember the first tug of nursing and the joy of holding him swaddled and close. I'll remember his big brown eyes, his perfect nose, fingers and toes.

I'll remember that even though the Lord knew on that day that James' days were measured, He still gave to us a picture of His glory in the birth of a son. And in the hard, hard, achingly hard days that followed, when we wondered bitterly, aloud, angry and desperate, as to how we would survive, that God perseveringly showed us His glory in the birth, life, and death of His Son. Even on the days when we could not and would not look.

Resurrection and all of its hope, bound up in the glorified, risen body of the Lord Jesus Christ has its roots deep in my heart. It has to because my own days are measured and the days of every one that I love are measured. So knowing that truth means that while my life has been full of the milestones that were and are and even those that were not, I can look with assurance to the milestone that will be--a Risen Christ who will restore all things to be as they should. No more tears, no more death, no more mourning, and no more sorrow.

Turning 21 is a big milestone, I know. And I'll miss celebrating that with James tomorrow. But I will not miss the milestone of seeing him again. For the Lord has given that by His word and His work. There is my celebration. There is my hope. There is my remembrance.

Mondays are a favorite day...

for me in my weeks right now. For many I know that Monday is not good. It signals a return to labor, to stress, to tension, to tasks undone demanding to be done.

But I'm a part-time girl at the "job outside the house" and Monday is my day to both recover from the weekend and to prepare for the week. There is time for a leisurely walk with the dog, for sitting on the porch to drink coffee and read my Bible, to meal plan and grocery shop, to read and study and write for upcoming teaching, and to stay in pajamas or at least comfy clothes until a 3:00 shower.

(I think one of the greatest things is an afternoon shower because it speaks to all sorts of non-hurried, relaxed indulgence.)

So Mondays are a current favorite day for me. However, this Monday has been a somber one as I've thought about the death of Kara Tippetts. I've thought and prayed for her family and friends who are enduring an incredible grief juxtaposed against incredible peace for their joy in all she has gained in being Home.

I've attended two funerals in the past year, both for men that I only knew incidentally, but I know their families and at both funerals, my tears just flowed. Because I know the hurt of grief intimately and I know the collision of faith and belief at the point of great loss. It is a clashing sensation of trust and bewilderment. Grieving with hope is a gift, but death should affect us greatly even as Christians because it speaks to how utterly broken this life is.

My Monday favorite has been a gray, drizzly, and sobering day as I contemplated a family waking up to once again realize the absence of a beloved wife and mom. All my same activities were accomplished, but with the heavy heart of one who longs with those I only know through a blog for the restoration of all things in Jesus Christ to be realized on earth as it is in heaven.

We do not and cannot know the days appointed for us. We have, as Kara did, the daily decision of choosing intentional joy, authentic grace, and unwavering trust. Even tomorrow as I go to work, I will have before me the same choices that she did even though I do not knowingly face a similar outcome.

I don't know how to end a post like this. It's neither light-hearted nor utterly depressing, just achingly real as every life marches to an ending. May the ending be glory filled because we chose well in choosing Jesus every day.

When the Lord gives you a story....

and He receives the glory, there is rejoicing in my heart all over again.

I've just had the sweetest weekend of teaching a group of women that for eight years running has held a retreat in January. They always ask a different speaker, and this year they asked me to teach. The topic was The Steadfast Love of God and the text was Isaiah 36-40.

In the course of teaching I shared a little of our testimony, told how I have experienced the steadfast love of God through James' illness and death and through the adoption of our first son, Nate. The story catches me by the throat even as I remember the darkness and His great light, the terrible sorrow and His precious comfort. And in many ways, our story in all of its details can be overwhelming to the listener. The "I cannot imagine what she went through" business goes through heads.

That worries me though because the point of my teaching is not how it looked or felt in my life, but how mightily and powerfully God intervened to have His purposes worked out. I heard Nancy Guthrie say one time after sharing her story and having my own "I can't imagine what she went through" thought in my head, that her story was only as powerful as it was used to glorify God. How I agree with her on that.

I didn't ask for the story that the Lord has given us. I would never have written in the 2 year illness of our firstborn son and then his death. I would never have written in the toll on our marriage or the broken relationships that came in the years following because of the deep depression of grief. I certainly would not have thought of the surprise of a preemie baby becoming ours or the losses and gains that occurred over the next three years in family and home. Those were the days that I despaired, believing our story would ultimately crush us, that there was no happy ever after for us.

But our story is one of God showing abundant grace and mercy to two people undeserving and imperfect in the highest degree. It is the story of a Savior who does not let His children go; who holds them in His hands (even when one of us was trying to pry herself out). A story of forgiveness and reconciliation and restoration and redemption. It is the story of miracles and common things that because the Lord was in them are still miracles.

A story that is only useful, that is only beautiful as it glorifies God and not the characters. So while God gave me a venue to tell again of His steadfast love in my life, I also spoke the truths of His word to these ladies and reminded them that God wrote Hezekiah's story, Judah's story, my story, and He is writing theirs as well. To Him alone be the glory in each of them.

It's just a job,....

it's not an adventure.

Remember that old Army recruitment commercial where it showed buff young men and women scaling obstacles, driving tanks, on recon missions, watching radar screens, flying helicopters and the like? The narrator would say, "It's not just a job, it's an adventure!"

Hoo-rah!

Husband was in the Army for six years, when we were first married. After multiple deployments and training exercises and sleepless nights and bureaucratic frustrations, he came home one day and said, "It's just a job; it's not an adventure." This became our tagline for Army life as he fulfilled his commitment and changed careers.

I've recently taken a job. I've found myself quoting the same tagline as I pick through what this new schedule will look like, how we'll continue to homeschool, and how our lives will change. As I'm learning the new routines and rhythms of a situation that I would not have chosen for our family, I'm leaning heavily on the Lord's provision and sovereignty for the nooks and crannies that I cannot see all the recesses of, but I know that He can and does.

Of course, there will be adventure because the job is about working with people. There is always adventure where there are people. But right now as I learn the ins and outs, I am reminding myself, through the tagline, that this job, like every job, has definite limitations. There will be frustrations and ruts of habit; there will be interpersonal difficulties and misunderstandings; and there will be long days of weariness and overwhelming circumstances.

I can only do what the Lord gives me to do, in His strength and by His direction. Does the job bear eternal purpose? Inasmuch as we are eternally affected by how we view and treat one another, yes. But in the daily tasks, probably not.

In other words, my adventure will not be found in the crossing off of tasks and their accompanying minutiae. My adventure will be found in continual dependence upon the Lord for a godly heart and attitude towards all those with whom I have contact--both at work and continually at home as we learn these new routines and rhythms. I desire to reflect at multiple points the Lord's goodness and grace in my life to them--even in a situation that I would not have chosen but have been given.


That's the adventure. Everything else is just a job.

Intermission to the neverending tale....

being told of S.C. and D.C.

Today is James' 18th birthday. I know in these earthly lives the 18th birthday is a huge milestone. That landmark event of high school graduation, college choices, and the beginning of adulthood in citizenship, in moving away from home, and in being officially a "man." I doubt eternity notes it at all.

But I wanted to remember today that though James died nearly 16 years ago, this day, his birthday, is still one for me to pause and give thanks. Thanks for his life; thanks for the two and a half years he lived; thanks for how God held me near each of those days; and thanks for the gift of hope I have in eternal life.

He was born this day 18 years ago on an Easter Sunday morning. He weighed 9 lbs exactly. He had a head full of jet black hair with the dark eyes to match. He was perfect to the eyes and hearts of his parents. His life already laid out by his Father would bring us to the heights and depths of knowing God's perfect love.

Every day, and I mean every.day. in some way I miss him. It's not a soul-breaking ache that keeps me in weeping. It's not even visible to those around me on a daily basis. But it is the shadow in my life that keeps me vigilantly aware that this life is not complete and this dwelling is not my home.

Scriptural truths about heaven, about loss, about restoration, about hope, all have greater meaning to me now, in these 18 years hence. I have been privileged to know deeply God's character in His giving and taking of James. Beauty from ashes is truth to me. Restoration of all brokenness is not wishful thinking but certain hope.

If James were alive, today would be a day of celebration with cake, a large gift, friends, family, and dreams of what would come next in this life. In reality, today is still a celebration. Cake and gift not necessary nor imagined as happening in heaven. I don't need balloons floating up to the sky to keep me tethered to a son once held, now remembered.

James' life was exactly as it should have been for a fallen world. His life is exactly as it should be in heaven. That is where I rest. I can miss him with all my might and still praise the Name of the One who is perfect in all of His ways and will.

I have a son, eighteen years old, as we count these days and years. I have a son eternal as God counts. To God be the Glory!

Finding delight, Week 2...

has to begin with the negative before the positive.  

This is my second posting in Alabamenagerie's blog carnival on Finding Delight in God's Word.

I've got a friend who is seeking Christian community, the type of fellowship where sharing what God is doing in your lives is not cliche but warmly welcomed. Where words like "authenticity" and "vulnerability" truthfully describe the interchanges rather than tagline the time together. However, the peer group currently within her grasp is not open to such spiritual growth exploration and has responded with phrases as "I don't want any homework," "I only want fellowship," and "I can't commit to anything else right now." They want a bunko group without the cards but with all the actual "bunko."

She's frustrated. I'm frustrated with her and for her. Talking with her about the issue brought to mind this week's study of Acts 17:16-34. Paul has gone to Athens. He is alone and walking through the city where he is "greatly distressed to see that the city was full of idols." Athens features two intellectual groups. The Epicureans (whose greatest ambition was to avoid pain and seek pleasure) and the Stoics (whose highest ideals were virtue, personal responsibility, and providence). Verse 21 describes the climate, "All the Athenians and the foreigners who lived there spent their time doing nothing but talking about and listening to the latest ideas." As far as they were concerned, Paul was merely the latest talking head.

There is an idol to an "unknown" god. And it is on that point that Paul gives a great apologetic discourse of how, "The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by hands. And He is not served by human hands, as if He needed anything, because He Himself gives all men life and breath and everything else....God did this so that men would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us...He commands all people everywhere to repent. For He has set a day when He will judge the world with justice by the man He has appointed." (Verses 24, 27, 31)

As Paul goes on to speak of Jesus Christ's resurrection from the dead, the formerly polite attitude of listening to him turns to mocking and sneering. Doesn't seem like there could be any finding of delight in this scenario, does it?

Read verse 34, "A few men became followers of Paul and believed. Among them was Dionysius, a member of the Areopagus, also a woman named Damaris, and a number of others."

That's where I chose to see delight--in the truth that God's people are found by Him even when the climate is utterly hostile to Him and His truth. He has prepared hearts that will always respond to Him. The numbers may be few, but He knows His sheep and they hear His voice and follow Him.

For my friend who seems surrounded by Epicureans and Stoics, I was able to point her to this passage and encourage her that a Damaris then can be a Damaris now. Start small, but start. Seek Him, and trust that the God who has determined the very places and times for men (and women) to live, knows exactly with whom she will have genuine Christian community.

Because isn't that the essence of delight? To delight in His Word and its sanctifying, refining, beautifying influence in the lives of those who will call Him Lord.

Finding delight, Week 1...

I decided to join Leslie of Alabamenagerie in her blogging carnival on Finding Delight in God's Word. In her Bible reading plan she is specifically looking for the word "delight." My study this year is primarily in Acts, Hebrews, and several of the epistles. I am also reading through the Old Testament using Nancy Guthrie's Discovering Jesus in the Old Testament. I'll try to note when the word "delight" comes up, but I suspect that my finding of delight will come more from what delights me in the Word and work of God.


This week I finished up in Hebrews. Reading chapters 11-13 is always that of great conviction and encouragement as I consider the proof of God's amazing faithfulness in the lives of imperfect men and women enabled to live by faith because of Him. From Heb. 11:24-28 on Moses, I found delight in seeing how living by faith did three significant things for Moses.


First, it determined his choices. "He chose to be mistreated along with the people of God rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a short time." (Heb. 11:25) When you see Christ as more precious than this world's offerings, than you will choose to do in this life that which proves His worthiness and glory.


Second, living by faith sharpened his vision for the unseen but absolutely real future for God's people. "By faith he left Egypt, not fearing the king's anger; he persevered because he saw Him who is invisible." (Heb. 11:27) So often when I have felt weary in the work of a Christian walk, it is scripture and its truth-telling of Christ and my promised inheritance that has given me fresh focus to persevere.


Third, to live by faith means that you absolutely recognize your dependence on God. "By faith he kept the Passover and the sprinkling of blood, so that the destroyer of the firstborn would not touch the firstborn of Israel." (Heb. 11:28) When I consider this story, I think of how odd it must have sounded to sprinkle blood over a doorpost so that the firstborn would not die. But Moses believed God's word and so he did exactly so. As Moses told the Hebrews about this sprinkling of blood, I can imagine that he was thinking how utterly dependent he was upon God keeping His word because there was no other conceivable way for their firstborns to otherwise be saved.


Delight in God's Word this week came for me in seeing how God has enabled me to live by faith. An imperfect woman seeking Him and growing as my options are refined, my vision is sharpened, and I know myself to be utterly dependent upon Him.

The day after the day....

I've likened to a grief hangover. Added to that I managed to contrive a head cold that is marching into my chest and the past 48 hours have been, um, s.p.e.c.i.a.l.

There is always and only one place to run when the circumstances of consequence and Providence land on your head like a wet cat--His sanctuary. Honestly, I went there to hear Him vindicate my hurt, my frustrations, and my self-pity that "this" is my lot. Faithful to Himself, He didn't do any of that.

Instead He showed me how abundantly He has poured out grace on me through what was His lot. His lot does not change the temporal facts of mine, but it does change the focus. Every time. Sometimes focus changing is the baby step to keep you from deeper quicksand.

I've known a great many people who have suffered great loss and greater loss than me. The study of grief in my life has spanned twenty plus years. Loss seems to either define you or inform you. People who are defined by loss are inwardly turned. Life itself becomes an enemy because the dailyness of it causes deep ruts that shout about unfairness and discontent. The constant refrain is about what we wanted and what we did not receive and what we still yearn for now. It is questing for better in this temporality that rarely, and even then barely, contains mere shadows of what better truly means.

People who are informed by loss are outwardly turned. Life becomes a progressive journey home that will be marked by faithful and faltering steps and by both the shouts and sometimes the whispers of voices singing, "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" There is joy to say, "This is not my home." There is contentment in understanding that rightly we know ourselves to be aliens residing in tents longing for a heavenly country.  There is peace in knowing that our mourning over death has its place but not its permanence.

Every year on the anniversary of James' death I struggle in the tension of being defined or being informed. I'd like to think that most days of the year I live informed. Remembering and celebrating that His sovereignty in my circumstances shouts great purpose to my days and declares His goodness. That for what He has given and for what He has taken my answer is, "I love Him more."

But on the days when I feel defined, when I think wrongly, and when I become mired in what could have been and what should have been, it is His hand that lifts me up to set my feet again on firm places. Head cold or no.

May His Name be praised!

We moved here....

sixteen months after your death. To a place that was supposed to become our home. To a place where no one knew you. To a place where no one remembers you on the days that hurt the most. To a place that has more often felt like not home.

I guess the easy answer for not feeling home here is because you are not with us. Every meal holds an empty chair, in my mind. Every basket of laundry holds an absence of your clothes, in my mind. Every laugh around the table holds the silence of you not laughing, in my mind.

It's always the mind that goes first. But wherever we land this side of heaven, the emptiness and the silence and the absence will be our memory. Not theirs. In some way I feel immensely selfish about that. All my memories of you are just that--my memories. But sometimes it would be sweet, bittersweet, to hear someone else, just one, wax on about you and let me simply relish the sound.

It would not fill the gap. It would not heal the hurt. It would not, ever, never, replace the loss. But shared grief does remind you that this is not the way it should be. Shared grief is the reaching out of a hand to grasp the hand that otherwise remains empty. Shared grief is the acknowledgement that you were then and you are now.

Today is your day of celebration with the One who never forgets either you or me. That's exactly where I will rest today. Until I get to the real Home and rest is the activity of my eternity. Until then, James.

Part four...

Part one is here, Part two is here, Part three is here)

Clarity can give you a headache and a heartache. I had both at this point. I had fully entered the arena of examining past relationships that had turned hurtful and present relationships that sharpened with grace. The result being that I knew God was and is being glorified in my weakness and sin, amidst the presence of pain. There is no bye on His work.

A friend's willingness to have God work out whatever, however, and whenever in her life directly benefits me because as she is refined by the Lord, she learns how to love me in the midst of my own refinement. Likewise, I am able to show this grace to others.

Not even perfectly, but hopefully, prayerfully, with the wrestling perseverance of Jacob. There will be scars in the process. Embracing God's purpose in those scars will mark how He is reflected to others.

Letting this part sink in has given me new gratitude for even the most detrimental of past relationships. Would I have chosen for these things to happen? Would I like a do-over on my own ungodly responses? Would I hope for a future true and biblical reconciliation? No, yes, and absolutely yes.

But whether or not my wishes are within reality, I can unequivocally trust that God will be glorified. In my sin--as He convicts and disciplines; and in my victory--as He receives the credit for mercy shown to me.

On to close the circle started here. When it comes to my parenting relationships, there are certainly some regrets, desires for do-overs, and always some ongoing refinement. God has given me new confidence and hope though in how I can biblically approach those issues. His work in me and my sons will scar and mark us all. The choice always looms as to how I will show those scars and how they will learn to view the scars. I could easily pretend that there is constant harmony and each one of us is moving from high point to spiritual pinnacle in obedience and love of God.

And that would be a lie better seen on t-shirts entitled, "Life is good," than lived out. The truth is only "God is good," and He exhorts us to tell that story much more loudly. Especially when life is not at all good. How much more valuable to receive all things from God instead of only the blessings that are just like we want them? How much more precious will be the praise from our lips as we exalt Him for working in the "ugly" as well as the "glorious"?

The one good story is that we are the greatest of sinners and Jesus Christ is the greatest of Saviors. To Him alone let us run in every circumstance. Let the truth of His scars borne for us work in us gratitude for the scars that tell of how we are being conformed to His image.

Part one...

I've been reading Give Them Grace: Dazzling Your Kids With the Love of Jesus by Elyse Fitzpatrick and Jessica Thompson. As one friend who is reading the book commented, "I agree with everything she says and intermittently want to throw the book across the room."

Exactly. It is that challenging. She confronts all the nonsense in our parenting that we have effectively deceived ourselves with for years such as, "Good parenting in equals good children out," and turns that model upside down to offer that we view every instance of parenting as not only the way God is telling us the good story of Jesus but of how we may also tell our children the one good story.

Easily three-fourths of the book is more about confronting your personal view of how the gospel of grace affects your life with one-fourth tackling how the gospel is to effect your parenting. The whole "You cannot lead anyone further than you have been led."

One of my favorite reviews of this book is over here and here. Read it and weep. I did.

All that was backstory with the point of part one being that I discussed chapter nine with a friend the other night. Some of us have been getting together weekly this summer to share angst insight, one chapter at a time. It has been so revealing. My greatest moments of clarity coming as I am able to speak out loud what reading the chapter and answering the questions at each chapter's end have been swirling around in my head.

Last night's clarity came on the sharp edge of chapter nine's challenge: that my chief end in life (which includes my parenting) is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever--no matter, whatever, however and whenever God may sovereignly choose that to occur. Meaning that God may choose to glorify Himself in my life through the weaknesses of my life; my sin, failures, and affliction rather than the world's idea of my accomplishments, victories, and blessings.

Um, but option number one hurts more. Can I have a bye on that?

A similar request made in a Garden resulted in the choice of trusting the One who is eternal to do exactly as He willed. Exactly as He willed landed that guy making the request on a Cross.

Tough stuff. Because that guy in the Garden? Well, He had all things going for Him. But me? Well, I'm just me--all messed up at various points but at every one, saying I trust that He will do with me exactly as He has promised. But how easy is that always?

Fitzpatrick states it this way, "Of course, every one of us will quickly confess that we know we need the power of Christ. Yes, yes, of course we do. But the veracity of our confident confession will be tested in our response to our weakness and failure and to the weakness, failure, and sin of our children." (Emphasis mine)

That is not an easy theology. We much more like the story of God blesses obedience just like you expect blessing to look than God blesses as He wants and often that blessing comes through refinement that hurts like the big one.

But it is the people who embrace His no matter, whatever, however, and whenever blessing that I will talk about next in Part two.

Unknown variables....

make me crazy. As in crazier than usual. Life's details with all given variables look like my 9th grade algebra book. There is some number and it is "x." Now if I could just find it.

The "x" is some news my family is waiting on. We've prayed for and about the circumstance and we greatly desire to hear the news. The vortexian swirl of unknown variables that accompany this news and the unknown is crushing my focus right now and bringing on an addlepated thought process.

I thought I would confess my impiety.

I am working through Nancy Guthrie's One Year Book of Discovering Jesus in the Old Testament. It's an excellent devotional thought, passage and prayer that I use in addition to my regular study. She's a breath of fresh air in the devotional offerings of today. I highly recommend her.

But her titles for this week acted on my conscious as Chinese fortune cookie slips. The accompanying lesson acted on my conscience as conviction.

August 11: God's Grand "Yes!" 
I was sure this was the day of hearing our news. I was excited to read the "signs." Conviction came as the words penetrated my heart to read that all God's promises are "Yes!" in Jesus Christ. No matter the answer to our waiting, will God's eternal yes in Christ satisfy my heart?

Why yes, I thought. Submitted again to the truth that God's timing is perfect and my impatience is weakness. On through the day I marched.

August 12: The Heavens Proclaim the Glory of God
All righty then. This would be the day where our news would be known, the variables cemented and I would join heaven's chorus. Conviction came as the day progressed without news and yet I am still commanded to praise the King of Heaven.

And then I peeked at the next day's heading...

August 13: Abandoned by God
Maybe this one I should skip.

Do you see where I'm going with this yet?

The titles of a devotional are no more confirmations and signs than a horoscope's predictions or a fortune cookie's missive or plopping open the Bible and seeing which verse our hovering finger lands upon.

Yet in the periods of waiting or wanting, of wondering and wandering, there is much weakness. When we joke about wishing that God would put a billboard by the side of the road with the news of what we are to do, we more than halfheartedly wish He really would.

What's a waiting Christian to do?

The lesson for me this week has been to acknowledge the weakness of my flesh to desire such things and repent. Acknowledge that God does confirm me in His Word and through godly counsel and in prayer and submit myself to such. Most importantly though, acknowledge the truth of His gospel for my life. The Lord of the heavens, worthy of all praise, has done all that is necessary in eternity for my faith and my life. Trusting Him in the active means not a continual replaying of the variables and unknowns, but a continual retelling of the knowns.

God is sovereign. God is just. God is good. In all He does for and unto me. And this week's waiting has been sweetly touched by friends who have told me His good news over and over and over again in phone calls, emails and even the diversionary date where laughter and sweet cupcakes were shared.

We still don't have our news and only God knows when we will. But until then, I'm in the lap of my Father who still loves even this silly little child.