Plank Removal

Ah, the angst of the soccer mom. 

Yesterday I was shushing one of my sons for making negative comments during his younger brother's soccer game.  I realized later (and, honestly, at the time) that I'd been launching grenades of my own.  And mine were more negative, more pointed, and much, much louder. 

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?"  --Matthew 7:3 

Match results:  

Not a win for the team.  

Not a win for the player. 

Not a win for the mom.

When my kids started playing sports many years ago, it was a struggle for me to learn the difference between cheering and yelling.  I did learn it, but sometimes I don't invite it to sit with me in the bleachers. 

This I know:  Yelling does many things.  It raises the blood pressure, bathes the system in a very unpleasant rush of adrenaline, strains the throat, stresses out the kid, blinds the eye, piles on the regret, and, worst of all, breaks places in my sweet child's heart.  But it rarely, if ever, leads to better performance. 

Cheering does many things, too.  It raises the spirits, bathes the system in belief, saves the voice, buoys the kid, notices the hidden victories, leaves no regret, and, most importantly, lets that precious boy know I've got his back no matter what. 

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."  --Ephesians 4:29      

A year or so ago, I was sitting with a friend at a basketball game that the boys' team was in the process of losing badly.  She caught herself becoming discouraged and negative in her reactions to the game and, flicking her wrist in front of her face to brush the unwanted thoughts away, dropped this nugget of wisdom into my life:  "Oh well.  I don't want to care too much." 

What?  How could you care too much?  Isn't that our job as moms?  We care.  It's what we do. 

But she's right.  Caring too much is like too much of anything:  It morphs into the opposite of what it was intended to be.   

Too much sweetness turns the stomach. 

Too much cold burns. 

Too much care comes out like a blowtorch. 

I apologized to my soccer player after the game.  And because he has a sweet spirit, he forgave me immediately.  

I need to apologize to my older son for clobbering him with my plank as I was gouging the dust particle out of his eye.  I need to apologize to anyone sitting near me who was dragged under in my current.  I need this to not happen next time. 

Next time, I pray that what I've learned will sit with me on the sideline.  

I don't want to sit in silence, because I really do believe there is magic in the excitement of a noisy crowd.   

But next time, I will cheer. 

"Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."  --Ephesians 4:16

Only Desperation, Only Jesus

This week I was reading the book of Mark and was chilled by verses 5-7 of Chapter 5:  "Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he would cry out and cut himself with stones. When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran and fell on his knees in front of him.  He shouted at the top of his voice, 'What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?  Swear to God that you won't torture me!'"

Listen.  I understand spiritual desperation.  And it's hard to imagine anyone more miserable than this man:  unrestrainable, self-destructive, despised and feared, and trapped in the ultimate nightmare.  It was complete mental, spiritual, physical, emotional, and relational despair.  Still, despite demonic possession, there was something left in him human enough to recognize his need. 

What strikes me straight in the heart is that even while he was on his knees before Jesus, he was battling spiritually--begging for help while begging not to be tortured. Isn't this what happens when we finally get desperate enough to cry out to Jesus?  It's like a child with a splinter--begging Mommy to get it out while screaming for her not to touch it.  

It hurts!  It hurts!

Coming to the end of our rope is terrifying. 

I have believed in Jesus for many years, but I have also struggled with fear, darkness, anxiety, and often crippling self-doubt, ever since I can remember.  

And lately I feel more at the end of my rope than ever before.  

But don't worry, loved ones.  Today as I write those words--"the end of my rope"--they speak a different language than the darkness that has so often torn its way through me in the past.  They don't come shrieking out, jaggedly dragging toward an end.  They come out swelling like liquified gold, warm honey, sweet relief, a birth. 

You see, what haunts me are lies: wrong, stupid, bad, less, different, embarrassing, obnoxious, ugly, clueless, worthless. . . .  They may not be a legion of demons, but they speak the same language, the age-old native tongue of the father of lies.  

The demon-infested man in Mark 5 could no longer be restrained by man-made chains, though we are led to understand they must have tempered him initially.  Likewise, the remedies commonly offered here to drown out the lies, however well-intentioned, do not silence the lies.  We crave acceptance and settle for acceptability. We seek justification and cast our nets for compliments. But reassurance and rationalization only dilute. They cannot, and they should not, cut through to the hurting heart.  

The beauty in the broken chains and the frequent skids to the end of the rope is that they reveal like nothing else the one true answer. 

Only desperation cuts through everything. 

And only Jesus cuts through desperation. 

So you there, out of control and shrieking toward what feels like the end, I understand the scream deep in your heart:

Help me. But it hurts!

My prayer for you:

That you will drop to your knees amid the broken chains and the frayed end of that very worn-out rope.

That you will raise your eyes bravely above what you are accustomed to seeing and raise your voice bravely above the language of lies. 

That you will be born, cradled in the everlasting arms and sung over in the language of love. 

That you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. 

The Lord has had mercy on me.  --Mark 5:19

Left

Wondering.  Do you ever think about us?

Lately I've dreamed about you every night. Not bad dreams, angry dreams--I've had those before. Not little boy dreams, days gone by dreams--I've had those, too. These dreams are new. In these dreams you are who you are now, and I am me. But we are talking. We see each other. We are a part of each other's days as an adult child and a parent.  We hold love between us, and all is well. New, but well. 

It's not that I'm having visions.  Goodness me, not I.  Besides, if they're visions, I don't understand them enough--haven't studied them enough--to know if God is trying to show me how he wants things to be or what I'm supposed to do. Maybe he is just smoothing out my jagged edges, softening me toward you, so that when you come, I will be ready. 

But do you ever dream about me?  Do you ever even think of us?

The hardest thing about being left is wondering if what existed before meant as much to you as it did to me.  How could it not?  How could it not color your every waking moment?  Or, at the very least, your dreams?

Love doesn't leave.

Family is forever. 

This is what we uphold. This is why we adopt.  These have been our truths. 

But now?  Is truth still true when half of it is hanging like a broken limb?

Yes. 

It is still true because of the everlasting arms of a Father who waits without weariness.  It is still true because of a Savior Friend who, with a reassuring arm around my shoulder, levels his eyes at mine and says, "I'll go get him. Just wait and be ready."  

But--

If you drop your end of it, does love unravel?  Or can I really stand here, stand still, trusting that God will hold your loose ends, faithful to complete the good work that he began?  Can I?

Yes.

Even if we are the furthest thing from your mind. 

Even if all I get is a practice run in my dreams. 

Even if I have to wait.

"The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms."  

--Deuteronomy 33:27

 ". . .being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."  

--Philippians 1:6

ErinRMS 8-19-14

Entrenched

Entrenched 

 

". . .release from darkness for the prisoners. . ."  --Isaiah 61:1

I can think of few things more heartrending than wanting good for someone else who refuses to pursue or accept it.  Moms are well-acquainted with this distress.  There is the relatively mild version:  coaxing your  toddler to eat his vegetables--or to eat anything.  There is also the excruciating extreme:  watching your child slip away by degrees into the oblivion of depression, drugs, or countless other forms of self-destruction. 

God, too, aches for his children. 

 

Mom, remember that little mouth clamped shut in a straight line, impenetrable by carrot, pea, or airplane? 

Remember those fists clenched hip level, those shoulders a bulwark, that jaw set like concrete, those sparkly blue eyes turned to flat, bitter flint?

 

Mom, remember begging, "Look at me!"?  (And he wouldn't?)

Remember actually going to your knees?  (Who have I become?)

Remember wondering if anyone was watching?  (Anyone at all?) 

Remember that day you lay on the floor wanting to die, asking to die, because the choking darkness was clawing at the back of your neck, wrapping around, filling your mouth and throat?   

When you stood up, because you finally did, how did you fill the gaping, malignant void?  With substance, sharpness, screen, or sleep?  With bravado?  With emotion?  With rage, hilarity, company, or work? 

Or, when you finally raised your face to the ceiling, did you see the faintest pinprick of light and lock onto it with every fiber, knowing it--beyond a shred of reason--to be Salvation? 

The heart of stone. 

The heart of flesh. 

The heart of God for those entrenched. 

The flame that draws and warms and frees and sheds the pinprick of light that is all you need, all you're asking--just that one elusive yes amid a swarm of brilliant, black nos.   

If you just focus on it, calm your breaths and name it Real, it swells to dawn and daylight. 

That is the grace and mercy of God. 

That is Jesus.

He sees your numbness and your pain. 

He knows that question you won't let yourself ask.  

He loves you through your very public and very private cursing.

He lowers himself to where you are so you can lock on to him.

He longs to lift your head, feed you, and fill you.

He goes to great lengths to reach you, chip around your concrete feet, and pluck you out of the depression you may or may not have dug deliberately.  

 

 

The Darkness Turns to Light

Isaiah 8:19 - 9:7 

When someone tells you to consult mediums and spiritists, who whisper and mutter, should not a people inquire of their God?  Why consult the dead on behalf of the living?  Consult God’s instruction and the testimony of warning.  If anyone does not speak according to this word, they have no light of dawn.  Distressed and hungry, they will roam through the land; when they are famished, they will become enraged and, looking upward, will curse their king and their God.  Then they will look toward the earth and see only distress and darkness and fearful gloom, and they will be thrust into utter darkness. 

Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress.  In the past he humbled the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the future he will honor Galilee of the nations, by the Way of the Sea, beyond the Jordan— 

The people walking in darkness

    have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of deep darkness

    a light has dawned.

You have enlarged the nation

    and increased their joy;

they rejoice before you

    as people rejoice at the harvest,

as warriors rejoice

    when dividing the plunder.

For as in the day of Midian’s defeat,

    you have shattered

the yoke that burdens them,

    the bar across their shoulders,

    the rod of their oppressor.

Every warrior’s boot used in battle

    and every garment rolled in blood

will be destined for burning,

    will be fuel for the fire.

For to us a child is born,

    to us a son is given,

    and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called

    Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

    Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Of the greatness of his government and peace

    there will be no end.

He will reign on David’s throne

    and over his kingdom,

establishing and upholding it

    with justice and righteousness

    from that time on and forever.

The zeal of the Lord Almighty

    will accomplish this.

 

  "How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing."  --Matthew 23:37

Oh, Child, look up. 

Look up in the middle of your roaming. 

Look up and do not curse. 

Look up and call me Real. 

Look up and stand still and breathe while I melt you and free you and feed you. 

Look up from your trench.

Unclench. 

I want your best.

I love you.

ErinRMS 8/15/14

My Psalm

My Psalm

Paralyzed. 

Fretful.

Wavering.

Fearful.

Looking down the barrel.

Fingers slipping off the edge of the cliff. 

The other shoe dropping. 

The bomb dropping. 

The coyote's legs still running, whirling crazily, not knowing he's out over thin air. 

Thin ice. 

Not knowing. 

The last to know. 

The laughing stock. 

Wrong. 

All wrong. 

Left alone. 

Worth leaving. 

Pinched off. 

Slowly withering. 

Unnoticed. 

Never was. 

Never will be. 

Never meant to be. 

Throw-away. 

No. 

No!

Salvaged.

Crafted. 

Created.

Known and knitted. 

Numbered and noticed. 

Growing. 

Green on the vine.

Worth holding. 

Never alone. 

Perfectly on purpose. 

Right and righteous. 

Delightful. 

Unashamed. 

Revealed in good time. 

Solid ground. 

Walking tall on high places. 

Shielded. 

Prepared. 

Caught up completely. 

Eyes locked on salvation. 

Faith full. 

Unshaken. 

Steady. 

Still. 

ErinRMS 8-8-14

To Van, My Gentle Second Oldest

To Van, My Gentle Second Oldest

 

 

I notice you. 

I notice you, my unhurried, unruffled, second-oldest, newest son.  You are steadfast, quietly amused, content.  You have no need to be noticed, so unlike the rest of us.  We five vie for attention, wrestling the room's mood like an opponent.   

You watch. 

I used to think you judged us, but now I think you love us unconditionally with a God-given heart of gold.  And you watch, not quite sure how to be a hurried, ruffled, waffling, wavering, striving, straining, chest-pounding attention seeker.  And you wonder if there is something wrong with you because you're not at all like that. 

I admire that you're strong enough to know you don't want to be like that.  And it also frustrates me, because to me it sometimes seems like "don't care." 

But--

This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee firmly in hand, with my Bible open in front of me.  I'd already completed my study for the morning and had actually flipped to a novel on my Kindle.   

I teach you boys to notice.  I preach at you boys to notice when something has to be done rather than pretending you don't see the dog dancing around needing to be let out.   

This morning I read my novel next to the dancing dog as you stood at the counter in the middle of preparing your toast.  I watched you place two slices of multi-grain bread precisely on the plate with the knife catty-cornered across one edge and set the peanut butter jar next to the plate. 

And I watched as you, without a hint of persecution or complaint, without even a molecule of sarcasm, spoke gently to our dog, left your breakfast in progress on the counter, and stepped out the door with her. 

And I noticed this, too:

You turned to me and assured me, "It's okay, I got it."

You stood with a small smile and watched the dog fumble through the door wearing that silly cone collar.

You asked that sweet pup to find her toy.

You played with her, not impatiently.

Your breakfast sat on the counter.

You came in for the plastic bag to poop-scoop.

You laughed, quietly amused, to yourself, unaware and without need of an audience, at the sight of that dog running up to you with her favorite toy--an old Gatorade bottle-- lolling from her mouth, surrounded by that ridiculous cone collar.

You washed your hands and resumed your toast-making as if there had been no interruption at all. 

I know I would have huffed and puffed and gestured, mean-faced, at my toast preparations.

I would have made a production, scolding the dog for having bodily urges and banging the back door.

I would not have played with her.

I would have poop-scooped, yes, but it would have been a persecuted poop-scooping.

And if I found the sight of her prancing with a plastic bottle while wearing the pitiful cone of shame humorous, I would have called attention to it, to my hilarious sense of humor, to be noticed myself.

As I write this, you are quietly unloading the dishwasher simply because it needs to be done, as I sit here typing and one of your brothers glances in at you and pretends he doesn't notice you unloading the dishwasher. 

But you don't seem to mind.   

I notice you, Son.  It took me a while to appreciate the person you are.  I almost missed it.  But God's been teaching me lately, gently humbling me in many areas.  And one of the greatest blessings to come out of this process is that, finally, I notice you. 

And I love what I see.

 

ErinRMS

August 1, 2014