Aslan is on the move...

 …”Wake up, sleeper, 

rise from the dead,

and Christ will shine on you.”

—Ephesians 5:14

While at a football game several weeks ago, I noticed an existential difference in the way Christians, women in particular, can be approachable and also not so approachable.  It is my personality to examine, to take in my surroundings, scan to see if they are safe, and proceed with caution.  At this particular game, my husband was working and my kids were off doing their friend things.  Cadence, to my right, ran the grassy area.  Gabe, to my left, stood in the student section.  Both full of laughter, full of chatter and smiles.  The game, in front of me, was a blowout.  And while I was somewhat consumed with watching the joy on full display in my children, I also took notice of those around me.  In one area, a cluster of moms were circled up and full of conversation and laughter.  In another, mom’s sitting more open.  They were still having conversation, but they weren’t walled off.  Both groups were full of wonderful, lovely, friendly, Christian women, but one felt more inviting.  I spoke about it to Cadence later the next day, but I couldn’t quite explain the phenomenon that I felt.  Why did one group feel safer?  Why did one feel more approachable?  How could we display that same openness?  How can we be approachable?  

Yesterday, I interacted more intimately with one of those moms in the “safe” group.  I felt it.  I experienced the difference and could finally explain the difference.  Intent.  The woman was intentional in forming links and not in building walls.  She sought out others, cared to get to know them, and wanted to form links with them in the work of Christ.  It wasn’t a sympathy, pet project, collecting of the poors, but an intentional desire to build relationship and advance the Kingdom of God.  She stood with proverbial arms open wide to link up with other moms and do the work.  And let me tell you just a snippet about the work. It’s providing a meal for young men. It’s providing a gathering for young men.  It’s organizing Godly men who take time out of their day to come and speak to young and impressionable men.  This is how you build Kingdoms.  This is how you create revival, invoke awakening, and promote legacies.  This is how you advance the Kingdom.  There is no doubt that these talks and these opportunities will have lasting impact on Gabe and will pour over into his decision making and his future family.  It’s an answer of prayer to see Aslan on the move.  

At Patrick Henry a few weeks ago, a professor spoke about feeling and seeing “Aslan on the move” before deciding to work at the college.  He had been to the schools that had a good talk, a good speech about Jesus and culture, but PHC was different.  From the professors to the staff to the students, the school was different.  I felt this difference when Gabe returned from camp over the summer.  The way he spoke about circumstances, school, dating, and marriage was all through the lens of Christ.  How could four weeks have been so impactful?  How much more could four years produce?  Since returning and hearing those words, “Aslan is on the move,” I have prayed for that awakening and revival.  

In “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” Mr. Beaver signals the power of the witch is breaking when he declares that Aslan is moving. The power of sin is losing its grip.  There is hope.  The mere name of Aslan stirs within them courage and joy.  When I sit in the word and when I write these words in these times when I am called to do so, I feel that hope in the name of Christ.  It’s the warm and tinglies of a Lord I do not deserve but who is at work.  It’s a leap of joy of my spirit in the presence of the Lord.  It’s a renewal that Aslan is on the move.  How is God working in you and around you?  How do you present an approachable spirit and how do you form links and tear down walls?  As Aslan enters Narnia and the snow and ice melt and new life springs forth, I pray we wake from our sleep and rise from the dead and feel Christ shine on us and that we will reflect that light.  

“Occasionally weep deeply…

 “Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”

—John Piper

Traveling through the streets, rows of lost loved ones fill the fields. Flowers abound, veterans’s memorial, memorial benches, statues pay homage to their memories. A feeling of unease. Get back to the front. Find the front and then go from there. Find your north and then you will know where to go. But I’m his mother. I should just know. I should know where to go. I should know exactly where he lies. Find the tree. Find the chimes. Look for his face. An unease. A sense of failure. Good Lord, how do I not just know?  It’s been almost 15 years. I’ve been here countless times. I am his mother. 

The morning is crisp. A heavy fog lingers about the ground. I look down and his face can’t be seen. His tiny body, his sweet expression, his father’s hand, no longer seen.   “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”  The words expelled before I even have a chance to think about what I’m saying. The feelings that simmer. The feelings that sit in the back and wait to be picked at, unearthed, to be sprung free. The feelings that whether subconsciously or consciously guide our decisions of today. I let you down. I wasn’t there for you. I should have been there. How are you 15?  What would you be like?  What would you look like?  I’m so sorry I didn’t do better. I am your mother. I should have been better. You deserved all of me. I should have been better. 

Composure. It takes some time. Clean it up. Maybe it’s just dirty. Wipe it down. There he is. There’s my beautiful boy. But it seems faded. Will his face still shine in another year, in five years?  Is this a depiction of his memory fading over time? His name being said less and less. Life playing out on a stone. The bronze etched baby on the surrounding stone seems untouched. Great, something else I failed at. You deserved better. You deserved more. I should have been better. I am your mother. 

Wipe your face. Tell him happy birthday and then on with the day. The work continues. He has siblings. Be the thing for them that you couldn’t for him. Fierce protector. Caregiver. Number one fan. Cultivator and curator of great experiences, memory making, traditions, great expectations.  Give them the life he never got to see. Give them that mother. 

Wipe your face and find your north. Look for Him now. Wipe away the dirt. Wash away the despair and self loathing. Look for Jesus. The Good News still remains. Find it. Remember it. You will see him again. You are forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven. You will see him. Look for Jesus and remember you will see him. 

Happy birthday, buddy. I love you and miss you so deeply that that love and loss is woven tightly into the fiber of my being. 

Lord, I thank you for the promises you give. I thank you for the moments to remember, to grieve, to feel the raw sting of loss. I thank you for not letting me live there. I thank you that when I wash the despair and self loathing away with the tears fueled by that loss, you are there. I just have to seek you. You are the prince of peace and your peace will fill me and you alone give me hope.

 

When the meals stop coming…

What do you do when the meal trains run out? What do you do when the condolences and the comforting visits and check ins cease? What do you do when the world seems to move on, but you are still scarred and bruised? The loneliest time of losing a loved one is the day after a funeral. The funeral, seen as a bookend, as a time of closure, marks to others an end. But to the grieved, it marks a time for a life completely flipped on its end. It marks a harsh realization that life as known before, a life hoped for, has slipped away. Memories of Gideon, things hoped for for Gideon, sneak into our daily lives at random times. Emotions hit hard randomly throughout the year and there is always an un-eased ache that rests within me. And while we don’t live in the depression, in the depth of hopelessness, we could easily slip in despair. So how do we do it? How do you continue to move forward? How do you not become consumed with loss, especially the loss of a child? Jesus. Jesus has been my mainstay from that fretful, breathless, first call. Jesus has been my light in the darkest of days. Jesus has been my therapy, my redeemer, my support, my life. Jesus gave me Lance. We have relied on Jesus for strength and we have leaned in on one another. In the middle of our life living in the camper, I felt like such a failure. We had sold our home in hopes of being debt free, made a purchase that only meant rebuilding. The weather was awful, water lines were freezing, conditions were tight and I had little will to go on. My husband was cramped, overworked, no real place of solace to retreat to. My kids were sharing a bunk room, Their bedrooms now gone. Their space to play and create a thing of yesterday. What had I done? One night, I just broke as we were sitting together. I began to cry. I had been trying to carry the weight on my own. I sobbed as I apologized and poured my heart out to Lance. I felt like such a failure. My desire to stay home had brought us to this place. Lance comforted me, reassured me, and held me. We prayed. We leaned in on Jesus and each other. This reliance has been how we’ve gotten through everything. One study notes that 80% of marriages end in divorce after the loss of a child. We were determined to not become another statistic. But that power and covering only comes from Jesus. It’s not our own will or our own ability. We fail each other. Unlike those well wishes and social support in those first few days of child loss, Jesus remains and remembers. He sustains us. He is gracious. He is patient. He keeps us. Without the love of Christ, we would be babbling, bumbling, babies stuck in the depths of suffering. Glory to God that He holds our son. Glory to God that He has given us two more children. Glory to God that He has given me Lance. Glory to God that he heals. Glory to God that he comforts. Glory to God that we will see Gideon again. Glory to God that he knows grief and he knows my grief. Glory to God that he knows me. Glory to God that he knows my name. Friend, if you are stuck in grief and you feel no one knows or understands your struggle, cry out to Jesus. Let Jesus take your burden. Let Jesus hear your cries. Rely on Jesus. There are no 10 step plans to overcome grief. There are no self-help books that will get you through. There is only Jesus. I pray for you. Succumb to Him. Let Him consume you. He is Holy and He loves you. If you need a friend who knows your grief, knows your cries, that friend is Jesus. im not even a close second, but I am also here Mama, my heart cries for you. I want comfort for you. I want you to know that I have not forgotten you or your child. But most if all, I want you to know that Jesus has not forgotten. Submit to Him and he will give you rest.

 

Good Friday

“But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.”—Isaiah 53:5 Friday Heading into service tonight, I felt anything but good. Our temp pole was delayed—may need to be moved, may swing and catch the whole place on fire, may get pulled by a too-tall truck. I also took the pool cover off and discovered the liner was falling down and there’s an area of rust completely rotted through a side panel. Dollar signs danced through my head. Thoughts of “what have I done” coupled with “I’m such an idiot. This is the biggest mistake of my life.” I felt hopeless, lost, like a failure. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the goal. As debt free as possible was the goal. A mama at home. An at home oasis. All in the plan. But building again, renovating or just filling the dang pool in with dirt was not in the plan. So as I headed in to church, my posture was not where it should have been on Good Friday. But then, a glorious thing happened. As the music began to play, Cadence requested to be held. I picked up her 45 pound self and slung her on my hip. Then Gabe nuzzled in on my other side. Both of them singing hymns to Jesus. As I stood there singing with them, the reminder of his promise began to pour into me. For years, a decade at least, I have wanted nothing but to be mom. I have wanted nothing but to be present. I have wanted to be the nurturer, the caregiver, the comforter. I have wanted closeness. And here I was, on a Friday night, on a holiday weekend, standing in church, with literally no space between me and my children. And my heart softened. The promise was that I would have this. It wasn’t for a pool or a house or a vacation this summer. It was for this, for this moment right now. It was for the ability to be off on the holiday weekend to spend it fully with my children as we share in the goodness of God and all that Jesus did for us. The promise was my time made available, made open for these two. As we clustered there, I began to turn to mush. Whatever happens with the house, with the pool is not for me to fret over. I thought about how consumed I had been with the latest discoveries and how they had stolen my attention for conversations, for experiences, for prepping their little hearts for service. I then diverted to God. Thank him that he is a good parent. Thank him that he’s not so consumed with the intricacies of this life that he can’t give his undivided attention to our ramblings, our prayers, our needs. Thank him that he keeps promises. And thank him for sending Jesus so that we may know him, we may be saved and that one day we will live with him. It took me sometime to get there this evening when I should have had a spirit of worship throughout the day, the week… but I got there and I needed the reminder I found along the way.

You saw to the other side...

  

 

“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider Him who endured such hostility from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”  —Hebrews 12:2-3

Last night, as I was packing up the house I found an old journal. The first and only actual journal entry in it was an account of why I was leaving my clinic position of 4 years.  As I read through the entry, tears fell like rain.  The entry was raw—full of emotion.  I had been hurting.  I had been struggling.  I wanted God’s plan for me but I didn’t know all of what that would entail but I knew it meant leaving my position.  I knew it would mean stepping out in faith. I knew it would mean giving up a nice salary with bonuses and stability, with a husband only working part time and enrolled in school and leaning in on God that he was going to provide me with something new, something better.  On August 14, 2013, I wrote, “Tonight, I journal so I can leave a trail of God’s promise, so that when that devil comes, I can show him this is why I left.”  I wanted the record so there was no doubt.  I wrote the reasons I felt God was calling me to leave.  There were many reasons ranging from too much drive time and not enough wake time with Gabe  to feeling like a cash cow to an at times hostile work environment to feeling like I spent more time with other people’s kids than my own, to simply the memories the office held of our fatal day with Gideon.  I ended the entry, “I trust in Him and like Gideon, I am putting it out on the lawn, praying He brings the dew.”  This Gideon was the Gideon of the Bible of course and not my son.  In Judges 6, Gideon knows the plan.  He knows exactly what he is to do but still he asks for a sign.  He lays out his fleece, asking for it to be wet and the ground to be dry and then again the next night asks for another sign that the fleece be dry and the ground wet with dew even though he was given the sign on that first night.  He asks for these two signs even after seeing the angel of the Lord, asking for a sign it is truly the Lord and having that sign given.  Three times Gideon asked for a sign that he was truly to fight the Midianites.  God didn’t have to but three times he gave him the sign.  When I wrote my journal entry, I wasn’t necessarily asking God to give me a sign that I was to quit.  I knew that I was supposed to leave but I was asking for a sign on the other side that He truly was with me.  It’s strange and it’s flesh but it happens.  Gideon knew what he was to do but he struggled with feelings of inadequacy.  His clan was the weakest and he was the least in his family.  He had almost gotten killed because he cut down the altar to Baal and built an alar to God after God told him to do it.  I knew I was supposed to leave but how was my family going to survive.  How would the bills get paid?  Gideon questions the plan.  How, at his own hand, will Israel be saved?  How were we going to get money?  What job was waiting for me on the other side?  I too, wanted the proof of the plan and not just the catalyst.  My “proof” didn’t come until 2 months later—17 days before my last day of employment.  On September 13, I spoke with the medical director of the Saint Francis Pediatric Emergency Center.  The details of that conversation were jotted down just 2 pages over from my “leaving” entry.  When I saw the notes last night, I couldn’t help but giggle.  I hadn’t written the notes as an entry of “proof.”  However, that’s exactly what it was as I look back nearly 9 years later.  

This move in my career was one of the most pivotal times in my life.  This is one of the most concrete, vivid experiences where I knew God was calling me to action, to act in faith, to trust in Him.  He was faithful.  I have shared with Lance and a few others that the selling of our house is another pivotal moment in our life.  It will mean financial freedom.  It will mean a woman who is more present as wife and as mom.  It will mean the fulfilling of a promise I was given over 11 years ago.  I don’t know where we will land, what he will have for us in the end.  We sold with a camper to live in but nothing to buy, nothing to build on.  I have felt like God was going to provide a house with land, with the necessities to live simply and to have our small farm life.  But he had not shone it to me when we listed, when we accepted an offer.   I do know he drew out the home we found last week that I inquired about.  I do know he set in me a spirit of boldness in that moment to step out in faith.  I know he is the reason I received a text back from the owner stating she wasn’t interested in selling previously but after seeing our offer, she now is.  I know that wherever we land, whatever happens, this is His will and our act of faith will not be questioned. I will use this “journal entry” as the proof that our God is good even when we don’t know the plan.  I know I follow a God who suffered a death of scourging, of beating, of hanging on a cross, because he saw to the other side.  He died for me and my sins. He died for me and my questioning.  He died for the joy of having me restored.  I may not know the details of what is on the other side of this move but I serve a God who does and in that I will rejoice and have joy.   I will not grow weary or lose heart.   

My notes from my phone conversation for my job in  the PEC.  I love how Micki's name is on the 3rd line down.  She has become my best friend and I cherish her dearly.  

  

Again, I will say rejoice...

...rejoice in the Lord. -Philippians 3:1

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.  —Philippians 4:4

As 2021 was drawing to a close, I felt the dam break.  The emotions, the anger, the anxiety, the fear I had been allowing to build for nearly two years finally released.  For two years I had fought feelings of inadequacy, feelings of unworthiness, feelings of being used and abused.  I had fought feeling as though at any given moment, the rug was going to be ripped out from underneath me.  I feared losing our home, our kids’ private education, our stability.  My schedule was all over the place.  I had gone from being highly utilized and essential to a place of feeling like I could get fired any day because the hours just weren’t there to keep all of us and if we griped or contested then that risk felt even higher.  When I would finally get settled in and comfortable with the current state of affairs, a new disruption would hit.  I felt as though God was slapping me, trying to get my attention, setting me towards something else but not seeing what the something else was—which only brought more frustration.  In the beginning of 2021, I chose to go part-time.  In part, so the risk of our current group losing another employee was lessened, in part because I was not in agreement with what the model was going to look like and in part because I just needed to step away.  For months, I didn’t work.  Thankfully, God knew what was going to happen and he positioned us in a place where financially it was feasible for a season.  A friend had told me that though we thought we were paying things off for this or saving for that, God had us set us out on that journey for other reasons and this just happened to be that reason.  But it wasn’t what we had planned and it was uncomfortable.    Then after finally paying off that student debt, I found out that I’m going to need another certification to keep my position—the one that I had been doing for 8 years.  That certification was going to require going back to school and paying tuition—something I thought I was done with.  Again, not what I had planned.  So, by the time December came, I was drained and spent.  But God spoke to me on Gideon’s birthday and reminded me to rejoice.  I had been waiting for him to give me the plan, the blueprint, my checklist of what to do.  But he simply told me to rejoice.  Rejoice in him.  Rejoice in Jesus.  Rejoice in my salvation.  Rejoice in that one day I will stand in the presence of Jesus and I will be in amazement of his glory and goodness.  As the year ended and the new year began, I held onto that word.  I made it my intention this year to worship.  

Worship isn’t just Sunday mornings standing in church, singing to God with my hands lifted in praise.  It’s not just listening to Shane and Shane on my drive into work or drop off and pick up.  Worship can be found in everything that I do.  Worship should be a part of everything I do.  And that worship should be to God to bring glory to God.  The “Daily Devo” app has helped me stay on track.  This morning’s devotional spoke about God giving us the desires of our hearts.  It spoke about how we wrestle with unmet desires, unmet Godly desires.  It’s hard for us to sometimes see that he is working in us, that he is developing a path, a way to make that desire come to be truth and fact.  Almost 11 years ago, when we lost Gideon, there was no stronger desire of my heart than to have him back—and one day I will see that come true—just not this side of Heaven.  But secondly, I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.  However, I was $80,000 deep in student loan debt and without a miraculous change in events and circumstances, financially it wasn’t going to happen.  But God brought me lots of people and circumstances that allowed me to have more time with the babies that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.  And these past two years haven’t been any different from that.  Granted, they’ve been harder.  They’ve squeezed me more.  I definitely didn’t always handle them with grace.  They haven’t looked as though I had wished but they have brought about change that has led to me being more available, at home more, actively mom more of the time.  In April of 2020, I was scheduled for 170+ hours for the month.  That month, my hours were cut to around 80.  And though I went part-time with the desire to return to full-time, that too changed.  This morning’s devotional resonated and spoke to me because this has been my desire.  Working less, staying at home more, being the available mom has been my desire and I am living that out.  These are those days.  They are tough at times and scary and filled with the unknown but they are here and now.  I have a savior who loves me, who does push me, who does teach me to be more reliant, who does answer the Godly desires of my heart and in him I will rejoice.  Rejoice. Again I will say, rejoice.   

Easter weekend 2010--when we found out we were pregnant with Gideon.

His mercies are new every morning…

Yesterday morning, I woke with a heart full of hurt and ruin. The thoughts of the loss of Gideon and how we would be celebrating his last day as a 10 year old weighed heavy on my soul. I laid there for a bit, not wanting to move, on the brink of tears. I finally lifted up, knowing I better get going or we would all be late, and I saw that beautiful sky. I stared in awe for a bit, snapped a picture that does not do the masterpiece justice, and managed to give thanks to the Creator.

 

This year has been immensely difficult. As we’ve struggled with a reduction in hours, income and gone back and forth on selling our home and moving, the stress has eaten at me. The uncertainty in the life of a planner wreaks havoc on wellbeing. Couple that with a crazed medical community who seem to no longer care about actual data and well-being of kids and I was twisted. Many times I felt on the brink of depression and in a state of sullenness.  Apathy doesn’t suit me well. I care too much, not to care but at the same time I felt too hurt to get too close. At work, I’ve felt like I’ve been balancing on the line of the circle, lonely and looking in.  I’ve prayed, read, reached out to my pastor, talked it out a million times with my mom and Lance and waited.  

So here we were today, picking up our individual birthday cupcakes, placing a few things on Gideon’s grave and trying to get a few pics to remember number 11. As I looked down at the ornament, “Joy to the World,” I chuckled. It hasn’t always felt like much joy this past year. But then I thought of the second part of the song—“the Lord is come.”  I was again reminded that my joy doesn’t come from my circumstances but from the Lord.   And I love Jesus—like butterflies in my stomach, singing in my spirit with a praise unlike any other. But that didn’t take from me missing Gideon. That didn’t take from not seeing my son turn 11. That didn’t make this past year any easier.  As we got in the car and made our way home to sing happy birthday and eat our goodies, I began to sob. “Though You Slay Me” played over the speaker and the tears streamed. 

“Though You slay me

Yet I will praise You

Though You take from me

I will bless Your name

Though You ruin me

Still I will worship

Sing a song to the one who's all I need”

A calmness came and again I went back to the ornament. Joy to the world. I needed to cry out to God. I needed to once again let him take the cup from me. I needed to be reminded that though I will suffer, I will know heartache and loss and misery, these will pale in comparison to the glories I have in Heaven. These will pale in the glory of God. And he reminded me. As I sit here tonight, thinking about Gideon and what he may look like, what he might be interested in, I will rejoice. Nothing can undo my joy I find in Jesus.  Though sin and sorrow will come, nothing can separate me from the goodness of our God. My name is written in the book. I will see our son again. I will see Jesus. And although life may look different than what I thought it would or what I think it should, his mercies are new each morning. 

It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.

They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. —Lamentations 3:22-23