Endure Everything

Endure Everything

More thoughts on Max

"Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory."

                                                                                                --2 Timothy 2:10

 

"Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth."

                                                                                                --2 Timothy 2:15

 

"Don’t have anything to do with foolish and stupid arguments, because you know they produce quarrels.  And the Lord’s servant must not quarrel; instead, he must be kind to everyone, able to teach, not resentful.  Those who oppose him he must gently instruct, in the hope that God will grant them repentance leading them to a knowledge of the truth, and that they will come to their senses and escape from the trap of the devil, who has taken them captive to do his will." 

                                                                                                --2 Timothy 2:23-26

Endure everything
What have I to endure?  The apostle Paul endured imprisonment, beatings, stoning, starvation, and desertion.  I have only to endure the mundaneness of my daily life and the immature ranting and sullen rebellion of a teenage son.

As it concerns my relationship and interaction with Max, what does enduring look like?  And what, then, does "not enduring" look like? 

For the sake of the elect

Do I know that Max is among the elect?  Do I know that he isn't?  No.  I can know neither with certainty.  Therefore I must assume, as I must with all people, that he is.  He has made a profession of faith, which he is seemingly abandoning at the present time, but whether or not that profession was genuine, only God knows.  Even if it was not genuine, only God knows what the future holds for Max.  Assuming he is not among the elect is giving myself an excuse to not endure because Max is not worth the enduring.  In most situations with Max, enduring is as simple as biting my tongue and reminding myself that the cost of giving in is Max's soul, and Max's soul, along with the quality of his life here on earth, is very much worth the sacrifice. 

What exactly am I sacrificing?  Is it the need to prove I am right?  Do I crave the credit for changing the course of his life?  Or is it as simple as wanting to have the last word, right or wrong, wise or foolish?  Each justification is a mere pittance compared to what is at stake.         

Correctly handle the word of truth

I have been given the Word of Truth, and I do desire to know and understand it.  As Isaiah 55:8 reveals, God's thoughts are not my thoughts, and His ways are not my ways.  To correctly handle it, I need to learn and be faithful to the Word, never twisting it to further my own agenda, and I need to conduct myself gently and in love when presenting it.  In responding to Max out of my humanness, my impatience, my own flawed thinking, and with my own quick tongue, I will not be handling the Word of Truth correctly.

The Lord's servant must not quarrel

Oh, how often I find myself quarreling!  I start quarrels, seize the bait and get dragged into quarrels, lengthen quarrels, prolong quarrels, wring quarrels' necks until every last bitter word has spewed and sputtered from within me.  But here God is saying, "The Lord's servant must not quarrel."  Why not?  Because I must be kind, able to teach, not resentful.  And that's exactly what has been the problem.  I have not been able to teach Max because I am so resentful.  What is the cost of holding onto resentment?  Max is the cost, as is any hope I have of him escaping the trap of the evil one. 

I am the teacher.  I am supposedly the one with my head on straight, with my eyes on the Lord, pointed in the right direction.  I am the one with the truth and the command of God to teach it to my children.  I cannot force the truth into Max's soul or, like meat through a sausage grinder, it is mutilated beyond recognition.  I must gently instruct him as he opposes me and hope that God will grant him the repentance that brings freedom. 

Endure everything

So, again, what am I enduring?  I may be very wrong to view Max's struggle as something I, personally, have to endure.  For years I have been expecting this release of the boiling inner turmoil he has tried so hard to placate with fantasy, fabrication, and avoidance.  Now that it is happening, what has it got to do with me?    

What exactly am I enduring?  In light of this new perspective, it is simply the moment when, inside me, the flesh and the spirit wrestle for control.  It is that intake of breath poised between conflict and kindness, damnation and redemption.  If Stephen could lift his eyes to heaven with a cry of forgiveness for his tormentors as his body was broken by the onslaught of their stones, then surely I can endure for the one moment it takes for the spirit to swell beyond the flesh so I can respond to my son with gentleness.

All that is left, in the words of Paul to Timothy, is to hope is that God will grant him repentance leading him to a knowledge of the truth, and that he will come to his senses and escape from the trap of the devil, who has taken him captive to do his will. 

Oh, Lord, for that, surely I must endure.  Amen.

 

ErinRMS

2/27/2013

Father, Forgive Them

Father, Forgive Them

Thoughts on dealing with my son, Max

"Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.'"

                                                                                 --Luke 23:34a

 

Forgive them.

Jesus forgave his tormentors, even as they were crucifying him, insulting him, blaspheming him.  He forgave them based on their ignorance.  His cry for mercy was not for himself, as mine would be under those circumstances.  His cry for mercy was for his torturers, because they were ignorant, and they did not know the magnitude--the "unforgivability"--of the sin they were in the process of committing.  He laid himself down in front of God on their behalf, for their sin, while they were yet sinning.

What could anyone do to me that could equal what was done to Jesus?  Is what I perceive Max to be doing to me anywhere near the same level of offense?  And even if it were, isn't there always a nagging feeling that I know I deserve, to a large extent, his accusations and treatment?  When he curses at me, I cannot deny that he has felt cursed by me and, indeed, that he has been cursed at by me?  I cannot plead innocence or ignorance.  I am reaping in part what I have sown:  jagged, angry thorns among the regal, immaculate harvest I tried to make myself believe I was cultivating.  A crown of thorns jammed onto a King's head is the best I can do, the only product that grows out of my own intentions. 

Jesus is the forgiver of his tormentors, and he is the forgiver of mine.  He is the forgiver of me.  How, then, can I withhold it from my son?  If I do, then I am the only one withholding it from him, for Jesus offers it freely, even before Max realizes he needs it.  He offers it to me as I grapple with this concept, with these words I am writing here now.  He forgives me when Max cannot, and he forgives Max as he hurls curses, welling up from deep within his wounded soul, at me.

He forgives us as we hurt Him.  And he forgives us as we hurt each other.  He holds out his hands to both of us and encourages us to step up and walk with Him.  

"This is how it is done," he murmurs, always gently.  "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

Father, forgive me, because I can't say I didn't know what I was doing at times.  I knew.  God help me, I knew.  

And help me forgive Max, because I see now that there is no other way.  Please take my hand and help me do this.

ErinRMS

2/19/2013

To My Teenage Son on Valentine's Day

To My Teenage Son on Valentine's Day

From Mom (on paper because words don't say it right)

It's hard to watch a struggle.  It's hard to watch a butterfly wrestle out of its cocoon.  But the struggle means new life is being born.  Without the struggle, there would be stillness and sameness and death.

Right now I see you, Butterfly. 

I see you struggling and wrestling your way out of boyhood into manhood.  You will likely not believe me now and maybe not for years, but I love you through this.  I hate it, but I love you. 

I love you through the grimace on your face, through the tension and strain of your muscles, through your clenched fists, through the smolder in your eyes, and through the fight against the arms that want to hold you:  mine and God's. 

I love you even though you do not understand yet that my arms don't want to hold you back.  They just want to hold you. 

I love you even though you may never read this, and if you do read it, you may not understand it at all.   

I love you for the little blond, blue-eyed ray of sunshine that you were.  And I love you because when you finally break free of this cocoon, you will be a strong, bold, golden lion of a young man.  I see you, and I believe this. 

I love you because I believe you have the Holy Spirit deep down in you, and I believe the words of Romans 8:  "And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit," for it is only God who transforms the caterpillar into the butterfly. 

I see you, Butterfly. 

I see you struggle, and it scares me.  I see you struggle, and it makes me angry.  I see you struggle, and it hurts me. 

I see you struggle, but I believe Life will win, because God has a purpose for you, my dear Butterfly.   

Only God has eyes who can see the little caterpillar, oceans and worlds away, small and precious and lost, yet brave and cheerful and ready for anything.   

Only God can pluck up that little caterpillar, shelter him in His hands, and settle him down in a new tree across the ocean where he will learn, grow, prepare, and wrap himself in the dark cocoon that will begin his transformation into a new creation of joy and purpose. 

Only God knows the colors of your wings, Butterfly.  I do not.  You do not.  Only God.   

Entrust yourself to Him until this struggle is over.  He will not grow weary, though you and I both already have. 

Resist the darkness.  Fight!  Fight against the darkness, and focus on the light outside that cocoon, for that is truly what you are struggling toward.   

Refuse the darkness.  It will flee from you, and you will be born free. 

Butterfly, you will be a new man:  whole and strong and brilliant. 

I see you, Butterfly. 

I love you because there is no one else like you. 

I see that you, more than any other kid I know, are gifted with the perfect combination of excitement, curiosity, physical beauty, friendliness, humor, and spirit.  

Your smile is amazing, Butterfly.  When it lights up your face, it could slay the entire army of darkness all at once. 

These are some of the colors of your wings.  No one else is like you.   

Fight the darkness for this, to God's glory.  Fight through the cocoon.  The fight is making your wings stronger. 

I am here.  I love you.  I am proud of you, Butterfly.  I am cheering for you in your struggle.  I am waiting for you, Butterfly. 

I am sorry for the times I have failed you, and I am sorry I cannot seem to say these words out loud to you.  I am sorry that often the words I do say do more harm than good.

I, myself, am more of a moth than a butterfly.  Though even moths have their purpose, I will never be what you will be.  You, Butterfly, are bright and brilliant and strong. 

I see you.   

Even if you read all of this and cannot believe me, hang on to it. 

I still love you.

 

Mom 

 

ErinRMS

2/14/2013

The Pregnancy That is the Teen Years

The Pregnancy That is the Teen Years

I am an adoptive mom.  Many of us shun using the "a" word as an adjective, as if by clarifying our route to motherhood we degrade our status or negate part of the meaning of that word:  Mom.  I am an adoptive mom, and I am also fully a mom. 

I have known and loved many moms whose route to motherhood was pregnancy.  I have known and loved many moms whose pregnancies began and ended joyfully and easily.  I have also known and loved several moms whose pregnancies began delicately and deliberately, progressed bathed in that strange brew of grief-fear-hope, and often ended in unexplainable loss and emptiness.  My understanding of the physical and emotional state of pregnancy is secondhand.  In this regard, I am an adoptive mom.   

I have run, walked, and crawled along the path to motherhood through adoption processes that were effortless, predictable, and agonizing.  I have followed clearly marked roads that veered without warning to loss and emptiness.  I have trudged off-road until I've caught sight of the path to my child again through the overgrowth.  My understanding of the desire, pursuit, and realization of the birth of a family is firsthand.  In this regard, I am simply a mom. 

In Genesis 3:16, God declared to the wayward Eve and to us, her daughters, "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children."  Childbirth is painful.  Sometimes bearing children--the ones who are here, to whom we daily devote ourselves--is painful, too. 

As a daughter of Eve who became a mom through adoption, I have admittedly glossed over God's fateful pronouncement to my ancient ancestor.  I've considered it a bullet dodged.  During years of waiting and uncertainty, in those times when the adoption process became particularly grueling, the absence of physical pain in childbearing was even a sort of consolation prize.   

And then the Lord saw fit that I bear a certain teenage son. 

In the beginning, the Lord blessed me with this blond, blue-eyed, nine-year-old ray of sunshine.  I felt sure of it, then.  He needed me, needed the home and family my husband and I held out to him.  We were a unit working together, mother and child.  He needed the sustenance, comfort, and guidance that only a mom can give, and I needed him to fill me up, heart and soul.  But suddenly, now, I am intensely uncomfortable.  He seems to be abruptly breech, upside down and sideways, in our relationship.  Now, what seemed right, true, and rewarding has morphed into something twisted, heavy, and life-sapping.  

Lately, I've been seized with terror that four years of high school, if my husband and I are even able to carry him that far, will end in loss.  He will spontaneously abort, despite our desire, vigilance, and care.  The pangs of separation have come too early, and the trickle will become a hemorrhage.  And the hemorrhage will result not only in the loss of this child but also in irreparable damage to me, his mother. 

If the teen years really are a second pregnancy, and if the gestation of this, my oldest son, fails, what is to become of me?  What is to become of the three children next in line?  If the womb that is my mothering is not conducive to carrying them to term, how will they ever make their way out of childhood into adulthood?  What if they stagnate, all four of them? 

I'm an adult with an adult relationship with my parents.  They did their best raising me and, from what they tell me now, they are proud of the results of their efforts:  a healthy, successful, full-term birth.  They apparently knew the steps through which to walk me on my way through the teen years, through college, and through establishing my identity and independence.  How did they know what they were supposed to do?  Or was the process, like a pregnancy, bound to move along in one way or another because of or despite their efforts?   Is there a teenage equivalent of the how-to book, What to Expect When You're Expecting, that everyone has read but me? 

I never had questions like this when I was waiting for each of my four sons to come home.  I just knew we'd figure it out.  Parents parent, and children grow.  There was that brief moment when I held my first baby boy--gravely ill, with his heartbeat and rattling breath fluttering his tiny chest like butterfly wings--that I panicked, certain he would expire in my arms.  But really, up till now, I never feared the death of anyone or anything like I fear the death of myself as a mom.  After all these years, all the hope and anticipation, all the hard work, all the making sure I was doing everything right...  Is this how it ends?  I can't see my hand in front of my face.  I can't see into the darkened mirror.  I can't see the future.  Or if I can see it, it is a dot on the horizon, and the roadmap between here and there has been smudged into an indecipherable blur. 

What I know now is that a nearly grown man-boy is lodged awkwardly in a place where it hurts me to move and breath.  And I, as the mom, have to keep carrying him, because there is no undoing it.  I do not know whether I can carry him or his siblings to term.  I do not know if the passage of time will bring relief or more heartache.  Some days I would welcome a radical surgical procedure to remove him.  Other days I grieve what used to be and what might have been, and I hope for what might yet be. 

"With pain you will give birth to children."   

God, I don't know what I'm doing!  Help me!  I'm stuck out here on a limb, and I don't know how to get back.  There are lives to shape, roles I still need to play, purposes I am sure I am supposed to serve!  What am I supposed to do now?   

"With pain you will give birth...."   

This cannot be the end of the road.  I will not go out with a whimper.  Time will pass.  Children will grow.  I am still here, and God is still faithful.  This one may be breech, an anomaly that doesn't necessarily reflect upon me, the mom.  It may mean that he tears a hole through me on his way out.  God didn't promise me bearing him would be easy.  In fact, he promised the opposite.   

Here are some more things he promised:   

In Matthew 28:20:  "Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

In Ephesians 2:10:  "For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." 

In Proverbs 20:24:  "A man’s steps are directed by the Lord.  How then can anyone understand his own way?" 

In Proverbs 3:5-6:  "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight." 

Of course, in Jeremiah 29:11:  "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" 

And then there is Jeremiah 33:3:  "'Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.'" 

And perhaps it is all wrapped up and tied together with Philippians 4:6-7:  "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.   And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." 

Yes, there will be great pain in childbearing, but, as I am called to this point in my life by the God who is with me always, surely there is also great purpose.   

ErinRMS

2/7/2013

Every Bird

Every Bird

 "I know every bird in the mountains, and the creatures of the field are mine." --Psalm 50:11

 "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God." --Luke 12:6

 

I've read these verses before, and I think maybe even non-Christians are familiar with them. This morning something new occurred to me.

 

I'd always assumed God viewed the birds in a group, like we view a field of wildflowers or apples bought by the pound, as if he just checks a number off on his inventory sheet as he strolls through the mountains or oversees the market.

But now I think maybe he has a unique name for each of the birds he has created throughout time. Maybe it is something like "Loud-But-Well-Intentioned" or "So-Fluffy-I-Want-To-Squeeze-You" or "Jim."
 

When one of them falls, or is sold, or sings for joy or love or warning or some sensation for which we have no word, God knows his voice and sees him, who he is, by name.

 

 

"So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." --Matthew 10:31

Jesus came to show us the Father who knows every bird in the mountains, every hair on our heads, every star in the heavens, every thought, every heart, every cry, every fear, every need, every prayer, no matter how shallowly, tentatively breathed. He knows the meaning of the song of the misunderstood or isolated. I want to know this Jesus, for therein lies the key to the Father who knows the unique name he selected for me--the one that speaks of his knowledge of me and his love for me.

 That is all.

 

ErinRMS

1/17/2013