Faith is less about where I stand than who I walk with

I find that the more that I learn about Jesus, the more I realize how little I actually know.

The more I learn about the character of God, the more I realize how truly limited my knowledge and understanding has been.

I sit in the seminary class I am taking right now and I just glow at times, as I absorb the ideas and energy, and engage in the discussions around me. The questions and comments of the 34 other persons in the class, persons of all different ages, genders, social backgrounds, faith. The one common thread of each person is that they are seeking. For a better understanding of God. For a better understanding of faith. For a better understanding of themselves.

The reading that I do for this class has been mind-blowing in ways. Theories about salvation and about religion that I have never known. Theories and questions that have made me question just exactly what I believe and why.

It’s heady stuff. Holy stuff.

There are times in that reading that I read something that I not only highlight but I go back and read a second time. And then a third. And then a fourth. And then I write it down because it just has that level of power to make me think.

I read a passage that had that power this week. The professor of my class, who is the author of this particular book, was going through different passages from the Bible, and one that he was referring to was in the Gospel of Luke. It was Jesus’ telling of the parable of the Good Samaritan. What the professor said was this: “In constructing the story in this way, Jesus indicates that the dominant religious, ethnic, and social conceptions of 'inside' and 'outside' have no part in the kingdom of God. Furthermore, the story of the compassionate Samaritan and similar passages suggest that Jesus believed that the outsider may have much to teach insiders.”

 

Well, let’s don’t pull any punches there.

I figuratively took a step back when I read that.

In a world where there is so much labeling of us and them, the concept that “inside” and “outside” have no part in the kingdom of God is a powerful one.

In a political climate that is so decisive and so concerned with what party or ideological viewpoint you associate yourself with, the concept is a novelty.

In a country that is so charged with opinion on who ought to be able to be here, how they ought to be able to get here, and what they ought to act like when they do get here, the concept is unique.

The concept is humbling.

As I thought about this concept, I made a connection to something I had heard said this past Sunday at a laity leadership training. At the training, the speaker quoted some different passages from a book written by a bishop. One of the passages stood out to me above all else. My paraphrase of that passage is “Faith is less about where I stand than who I walk with.” When the speaker said that, I had to pull out a pen and write it down because I realized if I learned nothing else that day, my time had been well spent by hearing that concept.

 

Faith is less about where I stand than who I walk with.

 

As I thought of that concept, as I thought about my professor’s sentiment about the purpose of the good Samaritan story, and as I thought of all the things that I have been learning about faith, and theology, and religion, and belief, I realized that what it all boils down to is this:

It matters what you believe. But what also matters is how you live out that belief.

It matters who you walk with. It matters both that you walk with the people you need and that you walk with the people who need you. It matters that you recognize that dignity belongs to each person regardless of their religious, ethnic, or social identity. Regardless of their gender, race, sexual orientation or identity, or age.

It matters that you have the humility to recognize that you can learn from each person that you meet. That each person you meet has value. To God, to society, and to you, whether you choose to acknowledge that value or not.

I began to think, what if we thought of things in that way? What if instead of worrying about what we believe, what other people believe, and whether people believe what we believe, we simply walk with people? Those we need and those who need us? What if we recognize that we have as much to learn as we have to teach?

What if instead of judging other people for things we don’t understand, we try to understand? What if we ask questions instead of give opinions? What if we seek honest answers instead of impart judgment?

What if God cares a whole lot less about where we stand than if we stand up? For the outsider. The outcast. The overlooked. The powerless. The misunderstood.  The least of these.

What if God cares more if we act like Jesus than talk about Jesus?

There is much I do not know about God. Despite all the seminary classes I may take and all the questions I may ask, there is much I will never know until I am standing face to face with God at the end of this life. More likely, rather than standing, I think I will be flat on my face, tears streaming down my face, gratitude and love filling my heart and my thoughts, worshipping at the feet of my Jesus.

I think when that happens that who I walked with, who held me up, and who I held up, is going to mean so much more than where I stood on different issues.

What will matter is that I loved well and was loved well.

That I valued and was valued.

That I cherished and was cherished.

Faith is less about where I stand than who I walk with.

Unexpected gifts

I passed a little girl this afternoon in the hallway of my office as I was heading to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. 

She was probably four or five. She had a blonde pageboy haircut and big round eyes. 

“Do you want a skittle?” she asked as she held up an orange skittle for me to see. 

“No ma’am, but thank you very much,” I replied. 

I don’t really like skittles and I didn’t know where all her hands had been. 

As I walked back to my office, I thought about what a gift that was that she had offered me and I felt a little sad I hadn’t taken it from her when it was offered with such generosity. 

Kids that come to the CPS office are not typically there for field trips. They are there because they are visiting their parents. Parents that they cannot live with because of issues like drug abuse, neglect, physical abuse or sexual abuse. 

I did not recognize this little girl. So I didn’t know her story. But I’m guessing she has one. I’m pretty sure she has one or she wouldn’t be in my office on a Tuesday afternoon. 

But despite her story, despite whatever abuse or neglect she had experienced to cause her to be there, she was nothing but joy. Offering her skittles to those strangers whose paths she crossed. 

I think maybe there is something to learn from that little girl. 

That no matter what you have been through, no matter how little you may have of your own to give, there’s always enough to share with those you come across. Whether you know them well, or whether you’re meeting them for the very first time. 

And when someone offers you a gift, whether it’s something you like or not or whether their hands may be dirty, you should take it with the same graciousness with which it was offered. 

The sanctity of life

 I had absolutely no intention of saying anything public about this weeks New York State abortion decision. 

I’ve refused to read most of the posts that I’ve seen people post about it. 

I have intentionally chosen not to immerse myself in or engage with others over this issue. 

In fact, prior to today, I’ve only discussed this with my husband and one friend. 

Because I know that there is entirely too much room in this debate for hurting feelings and relationships beyond what can be repaired. 

Because I know that there are some topics people feel so strongly about that their minds cannot be changed no matter what is said or who says it. 

Because I know that for people who struggle with infertility, this subject can be an especially painful one. 

Because I never want to hurt someone by my thoughts or my words. 

Because, quite honestly, my thoughts and opinions on this issue are too involved, and too complicated, and too personal to talk about to most people, and certainly too much so to be able to sum up in writing. 

So I have said nothing. And then a friend today had a post that was thoughtful and kind and discerning about the reaction of people this week. And despite the fact that his past was thoughtful and kind and discerning, still someone had a knee jerk reaction that responded not at all to what he said but to their own thoughts on the subject. They responded to what they assumed he was saying rather than what he did. 

And so I commented on his post. As sometimes happens, in times when I have been afraid to speak up on an issue, there sometimes comes a point I can’t not speak. It happened today with that. And what I said was this: 

Too many people only value the sanctity of life until such time as it costs them something. Be that their tax dollars, their sense of security, or their sense of comfort.

That may ruffle feathers or rub people the wrong way or make them mad. I get that. But it’s what I believe. 

How many children are dying each day in this world from starvation and why isn’t our hair on fire about that? 

How many children will we allow to die in border shelters from lack of medical care before we start jumping up and down about that instead of being comforted that our way of life or our personal security isn’t being harmed by these brown skinned children or their parents?

Every single day I work with parents who are in need of drug treatment  or psychiatric care but each and every year there is less and less money being spent to provide that care that will help to improve the lives of these people and their children. 

Every single day I work with children who need a safe and loving home where they can heal and grow until such time as their parents can safely care for them again or where they can stay forever because their parents can’t. And each and every day I deal with children who are sleeping in our office, or in shelters, or aging out of care without a family to call their own, because people are too afraid to step outside their comfort zones to provide homes for the least of these. 

I’ve been to homeless shelters, and nursing homes, and mental health facilities, all full of people who have been turned away, turned from, and turned down from the things and the people they need to help to give them dignity and joy. 

I’ve looked into the eyes of persons in the LGBTQ community who have been told they are less than, and sinners, and going to hell. By those same persons whose hearts are so broken by this abortion ruling. 

The sanctity of life doesn’t stop when a baby is born. It doesn’t stop because a child is born on the wrong side of the border, or with skin that is too dark, or with the wrong sexual orientation, or identity, or chemical imbalance. 

All life is precious. All life. 

So yes, value the sanctity of life. But value all of it. Even when it costs you something. 

And please, don’t judge others for decisions they make that you may never understand because you haven’t walked in their shoes. Pray for them. Grieve for them. But don’t judge them. 

Worry instead about what you are doing to love people well. All people. To honor and to serve the least of these. No matter their stage of life. 

https://andsometimesflowersbloom.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-sanctity-of-life.html?m=1

Let love win

She often wipes tears from her eyes as she holds her tiny baby during the two hours she is able to see her each week. 

He looks on as his baby sleeps, snuggled up to the chest of the woman he loves. He holds her hand and he looks on both of them with adoration in his eyes. 

It’s a normal touching family scene, but for the tears. 

Unless you know the truth. 

That this little morsel of a sweet baby was born positive for methamphetamine, a drug her mama has struggled with for the past six years. A drug her daddy has struggled with since he was just 12. 

These parents so clearly love this sweet baby girl. They are trying so hard to get clean and to stay clean. For her. But also for themselves. 

Her mama talks of the time she has spent these past 6 weeks since being clean doing normal things like playing phase 10 and having dinner with her family. 

She speaks of the relationship she is starting to build with her 3 year old son, now that she is clean and a consistent part of his life. 

When asked what is different this time, she doesn’t hesitate. “I almost killed her,” she says. “With my drug use. I almost killed her.” 

Those of us who see this mama and daddy with this sweet baby, who see the love they have for this baby and for each other, we want so much for them to make it. We are cheering for them so hard. 
 

Nobody wants them to succeed more than us. 

Because we need a win. 

Amidst all the losses we experience each day, all the disappointment, all the heartbreak, we need a win. 

These parents. They need a win. 

This baby needs a win. 

Love needs a win. 

Over addiction. Over unresolved trauma. Over tragic and heartbreaking stories of self loathing and loss. 

Love needs a win. 

Loving God, let love win this time. For all of us. Let love win. 

Uniquely Me

The message this past Sunday was one about spiritual gifts and the idea of discovering who you are, and using the gifts that God has given you in the way that only you can. In our small group before the service, we spent time talking about spiritual gifts and our leader (Hi Johnny!) asked us to name not our spiritual gifts but those of our spouse, and they of us. Four of the women, myself included, talked about how our husbands are helpers. I thought that was interesting, because that’s not necessarily a trait that you think of when you think of society’s expectations of men and who they are and how they should act. 

It got me to thinking about how there are so many expectations in society, and often in the church, that tell men and women who and how they are supposed to be and who and how they are not. It got me to thinking about how much that mindset can limit us from living fully into whom God created us to be for fear of judgement or condemnation for not fitting into the norm of who we “should” be.

I’ve always felt that in many ways, as a woman, I was both too much and not enough.  Too smart, too ambitious, too outspoken, too blunt, too likely to cuss or drink. Not nurturing enough, not selfless enough, not demure enough, not caring enough. The list goes on. 

I’ve always been more comfortable in a group of professional men than in a group of stay at home moms. That’s just always been who I am, and I’ve wondered at times why that is and what feminine and maternal component of my personality was missing to make me that way.

Part of the reason that I’ve felt that way most of my life is the message that I’ve heard over and over again that women shouldn’t try so hard to be like men. They should live into being the woman that God created them to be, with those unique qualities that God gave them as women. 

After 50 years of living, I don’t accept that anymore. Why can’t I just be the person that God created me to be? With those unique qualities that God gave to me as that person, regardless of my gender. Why can’t I just embrace who I am without feeling like I’m too much, or not enough, because society tells me if I don’t act a certain way based on my gender that I’m trying to be something I’m not? Maybe I should quit trying to be who and what others think I should be and just just try to be who I am. Who God created me to be. 

Maybe that’s what we should all just try to do.

As parents, Mike and I each have our strengths. When we have a child who is sick, I’m the best person to take them to the doctor because I ask all the right questions and remember all the important information and do all the pertinent research to know how to make all the right decisions. But when it comes to caretaking for that sick child, Mike is just better. He’s more natural at nurturing than I am. When the kids were little, it wasn’t mom they woke up in the middle of the night when they needed something, but dad. When we go see Aaron or take him back to school after a holiday, it’s Mike who has thought to buy all the things that he will need. He’s just better at seeing and taking care of those needs. When there’s help needed with editing essays or filling out financial aid forms, or making decisions about books to buy and classes to take, I’m the go to. We each have things we do better than the other. And that’s okay. That’s how it should be. But if we tried to do the things that we “should” do, based on gender expectations, we would both end up being frustrated and our kids would be worse off. 

Why can’t we just take that position in all our roles in life? 

Do what you’re good at. 

Be who you are. 

Don’t worry about what other people think. Don’t worry about whether people think you’re trying to act like a man, or a woman, or a dog for that matter. 

You do you the best way you can. 

Live into who God made you to be. 

God made each of us in a unique way, with the gifts and the abilities to be the unique person God would have us be to accomplish the unique things God would have us accomplish. I don’t think God intended for us to be limited by any gender based parameters that society or the church place on us.

So I’m just going to be over here living my life.  Being who God says I am. Speaking up when I see that things aren’t as I think they should be. Being the unique person that God created me to be, living into the unique call that God has given to me, meeting the unique need that God placed within me the burning desire to meet.  

All of me.  

The parts that some think are too much. 

The parts that some think are not enough. 

All of it perfectly within God’s plan and God’s purpose.

Fearfully and wonderfully made, and uniquely me.

Precious and Cherished

I wrote a couple of days ago about the negative things that we tell ourselves that we wouldn’t say to someone we loved, and recounted a recent experience I had with a mentor and friend over my inability or unwillingness to name my value.  The conversation occurred because of a passage I had read in a one of the books I was assigned to read for seminary orientation. There was a certain phrase in the book that had caused me great discomfort and I needed to work through it.

The book was How to Think Theologically and the passage was as follows: “How we understand our conditions as humans – not only our strengths and our preciousness to God, but also our limits and our opposition to God – is an important part of how we reflect theologically on the circumstances and events of our lives.” It’s a relatively innocuous sentence, with a great deal of truth, so why did it make me so uncomfortable?  It took me a little while to realize that it was the word preciousness. I have only slight difficulty naming my strengths, no difficulty naming my limits, and very little difficulty naming my opposition. But naming my preciousness.  Oh, that’s a whole different story.

In adding things to my “I Am” list that has been my homework for this week, I am supposed to be following up the I am statements with statements like “I might be precious.”

Sometimes that statement is easier to write than other times. There are times it’s all I can do to say I might be. There are other times that I can say I am precious and I can almost believe it.

Partly because the word is at the forefront of my mind so much these past few days, partly because that’s just how God seems to work, I’ve been noticing the word precious everywhere. As I was listening to a podcast this morning on my way to work, one of the speakers made a statement that there is one word that will set you free. The word is different for each person.

I’ve seen many people post in the past two weeks since New Year’s about their word of the year. I’ve wondered about that concept, but hadn’t really put much thought into it until now. But as I thought about what the speaker said, and thought about the concept of leaning into one very meaningful word for the next year, I wondered if the word precious was that for me. Or was at least a start. Because for me, the word precious is related to the word cherished, which is a word I have been struggling with mightily over these past 9 months. Cherished is a word which has so many layers of difficulty for me that I’m not sure one year is enough time to work my way through that. So I decided I should probably focus more on the word precious and set aside the concept of cherish, at least for now. But to make sure that precious was really the word I needed to focus on, I decided to look it up and see what the actual definition was, rather than just my personal understanding.

Here’s what I found. The Oxford Dictionary definition of the word precious is “of great value; not to be wasted or treated carelessly.”

Well that struck a nerve. More than one actually. We’ve already established that recognizing my value is an issue for me. And there it is, named.  Not just value, but great value. Okay, so I’m going to have to sit with that one for a while. But I can do that.

But that next part: “not to be wasted or treated carelessly.” Oh. That literally took my breath for a moment. Sometimes words have the ability to bring up thoughts and memories that serve to rip off scabs from wounds you thought were healed. The words “treated carelessly” did that for me. Another of those moments where you feel you’re standing totally naked in a room full of judgmental strangers. Exposed for everyone to see. I’ve felt that feeling many times over the past 9 months. That’s what it’s like when you start tearing those walls down and exposing the dark to light. Healing isn’t a comfortable or easy process. You have to expose the hurt and the shame before you can discard them.

So I sat a minute with those feelings of shame and those feelings of hurt. And I leaned into those feelings until I got to the problem that has been plaguing me since I named it a few days ago. The fact that the reason I have a hard time with the word cherish is because the relationships in my life that were the most hurtful and the most damaging, relationships both involuntary and voluntary, were the ones where I felt the most cherished. So much for setting that word aside. I realized that as precious didn’t have exactly the definition I had thought, maybe the way that I was defining cherish was off as well. So I looked it up also. Here’s what I found.

The Oxford Dictionary definition of the word cherish is “protect and care for (someone) lovingly.”

Precious

Cherished

The words are interrelated for sure, at least for me.

You cherish those things that you find to be precious.

Using the definitions of the words more specifically, you protect and lovingly care for those persons that you value greatly and who you dare not treat carelessly.

That’s not at all what I experienced in those relationships in which I thought I had felt cherished. That was part of the lie. That I was precious. That I was cherished. But by their very actions, by the very way they treated me, carelessly, without value, without love, in selfishness, they showed me that I was not precious and I was not cherished. Although that is what they led me to think they were doing and that’s what I was feeling. Well, no wonder those concepts cause me so much angst and confusion. No wonder I can’t allow myself to feel that, even in relation to Creator God. No wonder.

So this year I will embrace two words.

Precious

Cherished

And I will spend the next year trying to learn what they really mean. And what they really feel like. In a way that is healthy. In a way that is authentic. In a way that is life affirming. In a way that is not twisted and manipulated by selfish and hurtful motivations. Honestly, I think this is a lesson that will continue not just this year but for the rest of my life.

One day, I hope to be able to say, without hesitation, I am precious. I am cherished. I am a person of great value and I am not to be wasted or treated carelessly. By anyone. Including myself. I am worthy of being cared for and protected lovingly.

Because I am a beloved child of Creator God.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

With a purpose.

For a purpose.

One day I hope to believe it.

 

 

The things we tell ourselves

The book Little Men by Louisa May Alcott follows the story of Jo, one of the sisters from Little Women. She and her husband, Father Baehr, have a school for mostly wayward or fatherless boys. In the book, there’s a part where Nat, one of the boys, gets in trouble for lying. He thinks that Father Baehr is going to strike him with the ruler as punishment for his transgression, but instead Father Baehr makes the boy strike him instead. He found a consequence which turned out to be far more painful for Nat, because of the pain of hurting his beloved mentor and friend. The boy learns far more from the lesson than he would have if he had been the one being struck.

I had a conversation the other night with one of my own beloved mentors and friends. We were talking about the difficulties that I have in feeling like I have value to God for who I am rather than just in what I do; the difficulty that I often have just in admitting my value at all. She went on to say that she too sometimes has difficulty owning her part of the good that God has done through her, and named one specific thing. I immediately said, of course, you played a part in that. Because I have no doubt she did. She’s awesome and I know she had a very large part in the good that God had done. Her response was as immediate as mine as she asked me why I had no difficulty seeing her value but didn’t see my own. And then, as did Father Baehr, she turned the situation around on me. She told me to tell her how she had no part in the work that God had done, as I had been doing with myself. My resistance was immediate. No, I won’t. She insisted. To which I said, we’re not talking about you, we’re talking about me. Her response was no, we’re talking about me now. Tell me. I’m pretty sure I cursed her then. I was so mad at her for turning things on me and trying to make me say things that would hurt both her and me. Not because they were about my lack of value, but about hers. I could no more do that than I could have hit her.

Because it would have been a lie. A hurtful lie. And yet I tell myself those things every day.

Every. Single Day.

I’m keeping an “I am” list now. As a way of making myself notice the good things about myself. As a way of admitting to myself, even when I don’t want to, that I have value. To God. And to others. And that God isn’t just using me because there wasn’t anybody else around to do the job, but because God wants me to do the job. Because there is value that I can bring to it. Not just by the things I do, but because of who I am. Because I am precious to God, and cherished by God. Whether I am able to see that truth yet or not.

My friends, if you are speaking lies to yourself today, as I do, it’s time to stop. If the things you say to yourself, you would never say to someone you care about, then please stop saying them to yourself. They are lies.  Hurtful lies. You have value. In who you are, not just in what you do.

You are a precious and cherished child of God. No matter what you tell yourself to the contrary. I know that’s hard to accept.  I know. But I’m trying to accept that for myself. Try to accept it for yourself.

You deserve it.

As do I.

Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.

I’ll try if you will. 

Won’t you join me on the journey?

Of Samaria and sacredness

The sermon yesterday was in part about the work of Jesus’ disciples in Samaria and the view at that time of Samaria by most Jews. Prior to the sermon, in small group, we talked about what the disciples must have felt as they went in to Samaria. This was a place that nobody wanted to go. A place that most people were afraid of. That most people would prefer to turn their backs on and pretend did not exist. It certainly wasn’t a place that any self-respecting person wanted to go to and spend any time in. We talked about what those disciples must have felt as they were being called to minister to the people in that place. And we talked about times in our lives when we had felt led by the Holy Spirit to go places and to do things that other people did not understand and that didn’t even always make sense to our own selves.

People tell me all the time that they don’t know how I do the work that I do. There are lots of jobs that other people do that I wonder how in the world they do them. I’ve always attributed that to the fact that God gives each of us different skills and different gifts. I’ve always thought that when God call us to something, it’s because we are uniquely qualified to do that thing, because of our life experiences, both good and bad, and because of those different skills and different gifts that God has given us.

It wasn’t until this morning, in thinking about the concept of Samaria, that I began to wonder. Maybe it’s not just that God gives us special skills and abilities and callings to work in a particular area or with a particular people. Maybe it’s that God gives us the ability to see that particular people through God’s eyes rather than our own. Maybe the place that God sends us to work and minister is Samaria to those around us but is not for us.

Maybe that’s just the point. Maybe it isn’t so much what we do or with whom we do it, but maybe it’s how we look at it. Maybe it doesn’t matter what other people think about what we are doing or where we are doing it, or whether the work is needed, or right, or whether the people are deserving. Maybe it’s trusting that God’s plan is holy and the work God calls us to is sacred. Maybe it’s embracing the place where God plants us, and blooming there. Regardless of whether other people understand. Regardless of what other people think. Regardless of whether we feel worthy, or equipped, or capable. Maybe it’s trusting that if God chooses us to go to Samaria, it’s because he chooses US to go to Samaria. Maybe it’s believing in ourselves enough, and believing that God believes in us, even when we don’t believe in ourselves. God does precious and sacred things. He sees preciousness in people that much of the world does not. Just maybe he sees that preciousness in us as well. And just maybe, if we trust that, we will begin to see that preciousness in ourselves too.

Looking for the source of the cry

I left the office a little late today. Which means it was a little quieter than normal as I walked down the hallway from my office to the back door. Quiet enough that I heard the sobs before I saw the reason for them. 

It’s not unusual to hear crying at the CPS office. I often go looking for the source of the cry. 

That distinctive mewling cry that only a newborn makes tells me that there’s a parent there visiting their child that was recently born, very likely exposed to methamphetamine, or heroin, or something else their little body should’ve never known.  

Sometimes it’s the angry cry of a toddler who is incensed because they didn’t get their way or because it’s the only way they know how to communicate their frustration with life and circumstances. 

Sometimes it’s the happy cry of a child who is glad to see their parent, or their siblings, for the first time in a week or more. Sometimes it’s the broken-hearted cry of that same child when that visit ends. 

So when I heard crying today, I did what I almost always do. I looked to find out why. 

And what I saw broke me just a little. Four young children, sitting on the couch in our foster parent waiting room. One of the little boys was sobbing as if his heart was breaking. Because it probably was. Because earlier today, I approved the removal of these children from their parents. It’s the 8th child I’ve made that call on in the last 5 days. Those numbers are ridiculous, and heartbreaking, and in all the cases, unavoidable. 

Regardless of what you read in the news or on hate-spewing blogs to the contrary, CPS workers don’t get their jollies from ripping kids out of perfectly good homes. Removal is a last resort. It’s one all of us hate. I ask all the questions I can think to ask when my workers staff removals with me. I think of every outside of the box solution I can come up with. We don’t make the choice to remove children unless there is absolutely no other alternative. 

Because I don’t like to see little boys on strange couches in unfamiliar rooms in office buildings. Little boys sobbing their eyes out in heartbreak while their pillow and their trash bag of clothes sits on the floor by their feet. 

I’m not going to like it if when I go into the office before court tomorrow, there’s a sign on the door that says please be quiet, child sleeping, because the child placing unit couldn’t find a foster home for four little kids on such short notice and so they had to sleep on that strange couch and on uncomfortable air mattresses with no adult they know to kiss them goodnight. 

I’m not going to like going to court and hearing the pitiful stories of addiction and histories of abuse that their parents share. I’m not going to like doing my best to remain kind in the face of bad attitudes, misplaced blame, unearned sense of outrage, and downright hatefulness. 

People ask me sometimes if I like my job. That’s a hard question to answer really. I love the people I work with. I love the opportunity to feel like I am making a positive difference most of the time. But I hate the frustration of bureaucracy and policy and idiocy that harms children. I get overwhelmed by the weight and responsibilities of the work that I do. I have my heart broken by the stories of hurt and broken children, over and over again.

I know without a doubt that God is leading me in a new direction. In a new way to help people. There is great excitement at those possibilities. But until that door fully opens, until God makes it clear to me that this door is fully closing, I will bloom here where God has planted me.

And I will never stop going to look for the source of the cry.

When your heart walks around outside your body

We take Aaron back to Houston this weekend for his second semester of college. While I’m excited for his new classes and his new adventures, I’m also sad. It’s been wonderful having him home the last few weeks, and I’m going to miss him when he’s gone again. The house is going to empty once again of all the beautiful music that has filled it since he’s been home.

Parenting a college kid has been one of the proudest yet hardest stages of parenting yet. Seeing them grow and change and develop in ways that you had nothing to do with is humbling. Realizing they can make it without you makes you both smile and cry.

I once heard someone describe being a parent as the experience of having a part of your heart walking around outside your body. I didn’t understand that until I had children, and then once I did, I understood completely. I understand that even more now with Aaron so much farther away than he’s ever been in his life.

Parenting is a strange thing, really. It both sucks the life out of you, and gives you more than you could ever imagine, all at the same time. As a parent, you teach your children so many lessons about living. In turn, your children teach you so many lessons about life.

Parenting is, hands down, the hardest yet most rewarding job that I have ever done. It is also the one that has been the most important. It’s funny really when you think of parenting as a “job”. For your career or vocation, you tend to learn how to do it through your education and training but also from having mentors who teach you how to do your job. But despite all the education, all the training, all the advice you may have gotten before starting the job, you still for the most part have no idea what the heck you are doing when you start, and you just have to figure it out as you go along, sometimes making it up as you go. 

Parenting is the same way. Some of us had better education and training and mentorship than others, because we had good parents who showed us by example how to be parents. Some of us were older, and more patient, and more wise before we started this journey, and had more life experiences to guide us along the way. But truthfully, none of us ever truly know what we are doing when we start. We figure it out as we go along. Sometimes we even make it up as we go. Sometimes we get it wrong. Sometimes we get it right. But it almost always turns out just fine, despite our mistakes, despite our shortcomings, despite the times we wish we could ask for a do-over.

Parenting has its different challenges at all ages and stages of development. When your kids are babies and littles, and you’re in the weeds of diapers and bottles and lack of sleep and all that goes with it, you think parenting can’t ever get harder or more precious. And you think that until they hit the next stage, and then the next, and the next, and then the one after that. The truth is, all the ages and stages are both hard and amazing. And every step of the way, you are quite certain that you are screwing the whole thing up and that there will never be enough therapy to fix all the ways that you damaged your kids. And you know what? 99% of the time, they are going to be just fine.

So if you’re a parent that’s in the weeds of infancy or early childhood, or in the awkwardness of middle school years, or the angst of the teenage years, or the push and pull struggle of letting go of and being let go of with your college kids, or even if your kids are grown with kids of their own, be encouraged.

You’re doing a good job, mama. 

You’re doing a good job, daddy.

Just keep loving those babies, regardless of their ages. Keep on loving them even when you want to choke them. Keep on loving them even when they aren’t very lovable and are pushing you away. And support them, no matter what. Even when the choices they make aren’t yours or the people they become aren’t at all what you imagined when you laid eyes on them for the first time. And make sure they know you support them.  Because as hard as parenting is, growing up is even harder.  And they don’t ever outgrow the need for their parents’ acceptance and their parents’ love. And we as parents don’t ever outgrow our need to give it to them.

We can do hard things

In April of 2017, after Aaron was diagnosed with an immune deficiency after months of repeated and serious illnesses with no rational explanation, he began receiving IVIG treatments. This is a process where he went to the doctors office every three weeks, had an IV placed in his arm, and spent the next 6-9 hours receiving immunoglobulin, which effectively provided the antibodies his own body wasn’t able to make, and, through that process, was able to fight off infections his body had previously been unable to defend itself against. It wasn’t easy for him to miss an entire day of school through the last couple of months of junior year and the entirety of his senior year. But he did it. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

The plan was to continue IVIG treatment after going to college, but issues with scheduling and providers caused his doctors to recommend a switch to subcutaneous treatments. This is a process where Aaron administers his own treatment, via the use of three small needles, a host of tubing, and a pump. He receives this treatment each week rather than every three weeks but the entire process takes between 1.5 to 2 hours rather than 6-9 and can be done at his convenience. 

His IG numbers are good, he doesn’t have to make as many frequent trips to the doctor, and he’s been well for months now. All of which is good. The downside is that he has to stick himself with needles. Three of them. In the fatty tissue of his stomach, which if you’ve ever seen Aaron, you know he has very little to none of. Because of the challenges and location, he has trouble sticking the needles in himself. Thankfully, he has made amazing friends at Rice and has a number of them who are more than willing to come poke him at any given time. He wasn’t excited about the idea of doing the treatments himself. But he has. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

Fast forward to Christmas break. When he was coming home. With his medicine. With his tubing. With his needles. Without his friends. When the conversation came up, mostly as a joke, of Clayton sticking Aaron with needles, Kayla, a friend of Clayton’s, was present and offered to do it. In fact, she was thrilled to do it as she is interested in a medical career. So, after a training session by Aaron, and by a friend who is a nurse, Kayla has helped Aaron with his infusion the last several weeks he has been home. 

Until this week. When she was out of town.  And I needed to step up and do this. Despite my nerves. Despite my fear of hurting him. Despite my general inability to even watch when anyone, myself included, has blood taken. And you know what? I did it. With little effort and mostly little issue. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

I was reminded of when Aaron was discharged from the hospital after a second pneumonia admission in less than 6 weeks. He was sent home with a PICC line which is essentially an IV that runs close to the heart. Each day for 10 days we had to inject IV antibiotics into the port of his PICC line. I wasn’t sure I could do it when the nurse trained us in the hospital. But I did, as did Mike. Because it had to be done. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

How often do we have to do things we would swear we couldn’t possibly do? How often do we imagine things in life that we think we can’t possibly get through but we do? How often are we faced with obstacles we think we can’t possibly overcome but we do? How often do we face situations we are positive we can’t survive, but not only do we survive, but we thrive?

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

Whatever you are facing today, have faith. You can get through it. Whatever causes you anxiety, or fear, or doubt that you can prevail, be brave. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them. 

And each time you do, you learn. And you grow. And you gain appreciation for the fact that you are far tougher than you ever imagined you could be. 

And you just might be a bigger bad ass than you ever imagined you could be. 

Because when hard things need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them.