Save kids... Love kids...

My attire for court varies, depending on the weather and what I have set that day, but it’s never a t-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes, for obvious reasons. Another reason, which might be a little less overtly obvious, but is definitely deeply felt, is the fact that a suit or court clothes are a bit like a uniform for me. I just feel different when I am wearing them. More important in a way. More serious. More mature. Like I at least look like I know what the heck I am doing, even if I don’t always feel like it.

But today I’m wearing a t-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. Because it’s Friday and because during the latter part of March and April, if we don’t have court, all the people in the CPS office wear our child abuse prevention awareness t-shirts on Fridays.  So that’s what I wore today because I had no court scheduled or anything else that would take me out of my office where I had planned to spend the day on paperwork.

And then I got a call from one of the DA’s investigators. To tell me that the mother, on the case of a 12 year old child who was starved to death back in October, was entering a plea of guilty today. And I wasn’t going to miss seeing that if I had been wearing a bathing suit. 

So off to court I went.

But I was uncomfortable there, wearing the clothes I don’t ever wear to court. I felt bad that it might seem that I didn’t have the proper respect for the court proceedings, or that I didn’t respect the gravity of what was happening.

But I totally did, regardless of what I had on. As I sat there with my hands trembling, unable to take my eyes off of what was happening before me, I totally respected the gravity of what was happening.

A mother, one of the people a child should most be able to trust and depend on to take care of him, plead guilty to not providing that child enough food to sustain his life. She plead guilty to failing to get appropriate and needed medical care for him. She stood there, and answered questions calmly, and politely, and with no obvious emotion. As I sat there with my hands shaking so hard I had to hold them together to keep them still.

I totally respected the gravity of what was happening in the court this day.

I wonder if she did.

I wonder if she had any understanding not only of what she now faces, but of the effect on her children. Not just the precious child who lost his life, but the surviving children who very likely saw and experienced things that we will never know. Things that they will spend the rest of their lives reliving, learning to deal with, and attempting to heal from. 

And so, as I reflect on the unexpected trip to court today, and my discomfort at my wardrobe, I realize that what I had on was actually quite appropriate for the day.

Save kids… Love kids…

Because this job never has been, and never will be, limited to what happens in the courtroom on the days I spend in court wearing my suit.

It is so much more.

And as long as I do this work, I hope I never forget the gravity of what that means. 

In the hospital room standing over the bed of a dying child, in the courtroom where justice occurs, and in any place that matters.

No matter where I am, no matter what I am wearing.

Rising with skinned knees and bruised hearts

I had a Facebook post from a year ago show up on my Timehop yesterday. The timing could not have been more appropriate.  It read as follows:

A good friend of mine, who has worked in the trenches, so she knows, said something last week that I've really been contemplating since. She said, "Not everyone can do hard things. If you are a person who can do hard things, you must do hard things." That really struck me as I often have people comment that they don't know how I'm able to do the job that I do when they find out what my job is about. It never really occurred to me that not everyone could do this job. Or other jobs that involve "hard things." Over the past couple of days, I've been wondering if those of us that can do hard things can do so because we've been through hard things ourselves before. Maybe we are stronger because we have been tempered from having walked through the fire at some point earlier in our lives. Or maybe it's just because some of us have such a strong need to help others walk through hard places of their own.

Whatever the reason for the ability, I want to encourage my fellow friends who are doing the hard things. Attorneys, CPS workers, CASA volunteers, foster parents, law enforcement and other first responders, medical professionals, pastors, everyone who deals with hard things every day. I see you and I appreciate you. And I know that sometimes behind that tough exterior of someone who can do hard things is a person who is still struggling with their own hard things. Hang in there, friend. We are all in this together.

It was especially appropriate for me to read that yesterday because yesterday was a day full of REALLY hard things. The day started with 4 plus straight hours of hearings with difficult cases. The morning ended with me getting yelled at by an angry grandparent, and raising my voice back in response to that yelling, displaying, admittedly, not my best self. I try not to engage with people who are angry, hurt, or for whatever other reason, are feeling all their feels. Most days I’m successful. But sometimes somebody pushes my buttons and my ability to rise above is hampered. This was one of those times.

A late and much needed lunch with a dear friend helped soothe the savage beast somewhat but then I came back to people needing me. So much that they followed me to my office before I had even had the chance to set down my things and turn on my computer. And then my drive home involved a call by another person needing to talk to me about yet another situation that needed my involvement. And then finally, on my way to have ice cream with a couple of trusted friends, to smooth out some of the rough edges of the day, I got another call about another case in need of my attention. My patience by that point was absent. My language was less than pleasant. My mood was less than good.

It was a hard day.

Because this is a job full of hard things.

And no matter how good I may be at dealing with hard things, it’s still hard. For me.  And for everyone who deals with hard things each and every day, in their professional life and in their personal life.

So know this, friends who do hard things. 

I still see you.

I still appreciate you.

And I know.

I know that some days are just hard.

Some days somebody pushes your buttons and you aren’t your best self.

Some days you don’t have enough patience, or enough kind words, or enough wisdom to make it through the day being your best self.

Some days you're struggling with so many of your own hard things that it's all you can do to make it through the day, much less deal with the hard things you're carrying for other people.

I know.

I also know that tomorrow, you will get up and do it again, because that’s what people who deal with hard things do.

We get up and we try again.

And we try to find the joy along the way. Whether that be lunch with a dear friend, time holding happy babies, late evening ice cream trips with our tribe, or late night snuggles with our teenagers.

And we start the next day with a whole new sense of purpose. A whole new sense of resolve. A dedication to do the things that need to be done.

Because this is how God made us.

And this is how we bring the kingdom come.

Each and every day.

Even the days that are especially hard.

So grant yourself the same grace that you grant others.

Be kind to yourself, even when you think you don’t deserve it.

And know that you are seen.

You are appreciated.

And we are all in this together.

These boys deserve everything

The goodbye visit that I watched the other day wasn’t the first one that I have seen. Unlike many that I see, there was hope at the end that despite the fact that the father would no longer be the legal father of this child, their relationship would have the chance to continue.

That’s not often the case.

And it brought to mind one of the hardest goodbye visits I ever watched take place.

I have always preferred to represent children in CPS cases rather than their parents. I have a heart for kids who have been broken by life. But I also recognize the value of being the one person that stands unequivocally on the side of a parent who is struggling with issues most of us will never know or understand. But those things often break my heart and frustrate me more than the situations I deal with concerning the children. Because as much as I often can’t fix the things that are going on with kids, the damage that has been done to the parents to get them in this place is often so much deeper and so much worse.

I have a wise friend who once told me, “Cheryl, you can’t work harder than your clients.” And while I recognized that in theory, it was always hard for me in practice. Because it’s my nature to try to fix things for people and to make them better.

But the circumstances in some people’s lives are too broken to be easily fixed. And that’s hard for me to accept.

Many years ago I was appointed to represent “C”, a mother of two young boys, ages 5 and 2, both within a month of the exact ages of my boys at the time. It was an unusual removal in that the children had not been removed from C’s care, but from the care of the maternal grandmother. C had gone to jail for writing hot checks and had left the boys in the care of her mother who had gotten tired of caring for them and called CPS to come get them. This wasn’t the grandmother’s first dealings with CPS as her daughter, C, had been placed in foster care as a child because the grandmother failed to believe or protect C from the sexual abuse by C’s own father.

When C got out of jail, the boys had begun to settle into a foster home and, as is often the case with children who have experienced trauma, had begun to exhibit some troubling behaviors. The court made the decision to hold off on having visits between C and her children until she submitted to psychological and psychiatric examinations to make sure that she was mentally stable, as she had a history of bipolar disorder and non-compliance with medication. 

During this time, the 5 year old boy, B, made an outcry of sexual abuse against C’s boyfriend, the father of 2 year old D. Both C and her boyfriend sat in my office across from me as I told them about the outcry. C’s reaction was immediate and visceral. “How could you?” she yelled at him, and left him in my office, struggling to find his way back home. I can only imagine her own trauma memories and feelings of shame that must have come up from realizing that she had allowed the same thing to happen to her child that had happened to her.

By the time parent-child visits started, the boys had settled into their new home, and visits were hard for them. Particularly B, the 5 year old. He loved his mother, and clearly felt responsibility for ensuring his mother was okay, but so obviously wanted to be in his new home instead of his old. C often ended visits with the boys early when she realized B was having a hard time and was ready to go back to his foster parents. Within a couple of months of the start of visits, C called me one day and she asked me a question I will never forget, “Do B and D’s foster parents want to adopt them?” “They do,” I told her. “These boys deserve everything,” she said to me. “And I can’t give it to them, but this family can.” 

I told her to take some time to think about what she was saying to me and we would talk again soon. When we talked again the next week, she was sure that she wanted the boys to stay where they were and to be adopted by their new family. I did something I had never done as the attorney for a parent. I asked the attorney for the children to talk to the foster parents about allowing me to come to their home and to sit and talk with them so that I could assure C that they were committed to raising these boys and would agree to allow her to know about them as they grew.

The foster father was very suspicious of my motives. The foster mother, while less so, was very much deferential to his thoughts. I did my best to assure them that despite what had happened to B, C was not an evil person, but the victim of her own history of abuse. I could tell as I left that they were not convinced, but I did my best to have them see her the way that I did. So that one day when the boys asked, they might paint that same picture of her that I had for them.

While the foster parents agreed to provide photos and updates of the boys to C once or twice a year, they were not comfortable with ongoing contact, and the parties agreed that it would probably do more harm than good to the children who were already so confused and guilt-filled about their feelings.

The decision was made to have the foster mother join the last 15 minutes of the goodbye visit between C and the boys so that the boys could see that their new mom was okay with their old mom, and their old mom was okay with their new mom, and to provide C with the opportunity to tell B and D that they were going to be staying with their new parents forever and that she was not going to ever see them again, but that she was going to be okay and so were they.

I attended the goodbye visit in order to be a support to C, who had no real support of her own. I was so angry that of all the parties involved in the case, not one other person came. I felt they should have been there too, to see what their recommendations of severing these family ties actually meant to this family. It was then that I determined to try whenever possible to attend the goodbye visit for any case in which I had been involved.

The last 15 minutes of the visit came and the foster mother joined C and her two boys. B, especially, was very aware of the interactions between the two women he now considered his moms. His eyes went back and forth between them as they talked, and as C talked to the foster mother about their birth history and any relevant history she might need to know. At the end of the 15 minutes, C told the boys that she wasn’t going to see them again, but that it was going to be okay. And as she hugged that 2 year old little boy, I could not help but think of my own sweet 2 year old at home with his grandmother, and of the support that I had been given, while she had none. 

I will never forget the look on her face as she held that baby boy for the very last time in this life. I will never forget the strength that she showed, when it was all that I could do not to break down into tears of my own. I could not have spoken if I had been forced. It was the witness of her strength alone that gave me the strength to keep check of my own sorrow and grief.

One of the very bravest things that I see in this job that I do is when parents do the hard and painful work to recover from their addictions and their demons and their abuse enough to have their children returned.

But I will always believe that the very bravest thing of all is when they are unable to heal the way that they need to heal and they make the decision to give their children a life better than what they can provide on their own. Not because of the money that a foster family might have more of. Not because of the opportunities for education and benefits that they might enjoy. But because of the ability to be raised in a family with people who are well and whole.

C did that for these boys she so clearly loved more than she loved herself.

As my boys have grown through the years, I cannot help but wonder how B and D have grown. I wonder if their new parents ever told them the story of their first mom and the love that she had for them. The love that was bigger than her desire to parent them on her own, and was big enough to give them the life she felt they deserved but couldn’t provide.

I pray that one day when those boys are grown that they will choose to find their first mom. And that she will get the chance to once again hold that young man she last held when he was only 2. And that she will see that her sacrifice was worth the pain as she looks upon these precious young men that were given into her care for such a short time, to love and to hold, and to give away to someone who could give them more. And I pray that as she looks into their grown faces, she will see the little boys that they once were and that she loved enough to give up.

What makes a family

I wrote earlier in the week about a mediation that I had been a part of, with the tenderness of the biological father and the foster parents meeting and opening the lines of communication about the child that they all love, and their wish for the best for her future.

Today, she had the last visit with her daddy in our offices. The last visit that he is entitled to, unless the foster parents choose to allow him to have visits with the little girl after they adopt her.

He tried his best to tell her that he was okay with her being adopted and that she didn’t have to worry about disappointing him because she could never disappoint him, but he didn’t quite know how to say the words he needed to say. How do you tell your child that it’s okay for her to pick another family?

At the end of the visit, the foster parents came into the room and joined the father and the little girl that they all love and share.

The father had brought photos of the little girl from when she was a baby and a toddler, and he showed them to the foster parents. The foster parents showed dad video of a double the little girl made in last night’s softball game, and photos of different events over the past year including meet the teacher, and the first day of school.

They came to a photo from her birthday party this past year, and it was then that the little girl chimed in. “I wish my daddy could come” said the little girl with the charming speech impediment that caused her to pronounce octopus as optocus instead.

At the end of the visit, one of the foster parents asked her if she had any questions about what was going on and what happened next.

And then she said words to the little girl that brought tears to my eyes and to the rest of those in the room.

“We met your dad.”

“We like your dad.”

“This isn’t the last time you are going to see him.”

And I watched as the father gave the little girl a hug and told her he loved her, and as the foster parents walked out of the room with the little girl, while the father picked up the last of the food and other visit things, and I wondered at the thoughts that must be going through his mind as he watched them walk out the door.

In the pictures that the foster parents were showing dad, they talked about trips that they had taken together. The CASA supervisor made the comment that she really liked that they do these things together. “They are a family,” I responded. And she said, “Yes, you’re right, that’s it. They are not just a home but they are a family.”

And they are. It’s clear by watching their interactions with each other and with the little girl.

And today they opened the circle of their family just a little wider to welcome a new member in the shape of that little girl’s father, a man covered in tattoos, and not a lot of social skills, and his own sets of issues with which to deal.

And so this family is going to look a little different than most.

The truth is, it already does  look a little different than a lot of the families you might see during the day.

There are two moms and no dad.

They are of two different ethnicities.

Their kids came to them in an untraditional way.

But they are a family all the same.

Because what makes a family isn’t tradition.

What makes a family isn’t blood

What makes a family is love.

What makes a family is commitment.

What makes a family is recognizing that sometimes in order to allow people to live into who they are meant to fully be, you have to sacrifice things that might have seemed important to you. You have to step out into areas that might make you feel uncomfortable. You have to trust that God will guide you and protect you and She will honor those sacrifices and steps of faith to bring more to your life than you could ever imagine. You have to open the circle of your family a bit wider to allow people in that you might not have welcomed on your own. Because it’s what the other people in your family need.

I watch goodbye visits whenever I can, despite the fact that they are painful, because I never want to forget when I am seeking to terminate a parent’s rights what that actually means to them and to their children. I never want to lose the gravity of the actions that I take. But today, I walked out of that visit room with a little more hope than I normally have. Because today I saw a new family be created. 

Not because of the law. 

But because of love.

Facedown in the grass

The last two days I have been in back to back mediations, which, while not especially unusual, has been more difficult than normal this week, because I seem to be feeling all the feelings more than I usually do these last few days.

The mediation today was tender in ways that I didn’t expect. With foster parents who were willing to take the time to sit down and talk to their foster child’s father about their love for his child and their hope for her future. With the father, who loves his child but recognizes he can’t be the parent she needs, being willing to not only give her up to these people who can be, but willing to tell the little girl that it’s okay for her to want to be with them and he will always love her.

And then I came back to the office, my hands full of files, and phones, and cups of water, and weighed down by computer bags, and purses, and lunches, and I see this doll lying facedown in the grass by the back door. And I just stopped. Because that doll represented so much more for me in that moment than just a dropped or discarded toy.

And I took the time to shuffle my things to one arm so that I could maneuver my phone to take this photo to remind me of what that doll represented in that moment.

It represented that little girl from today’s mediation, and all the things that she is feeling and has felt over the past 17 months she has been in our care. The abuse that brought her to us, the separation from her sister and two brothers, the abandonment by her mother as she went back and forth to jail over the past months, the getting to know a father she had never known because of the years he had spent in prison during her early life, her attachment to a loving family and desire to stay there but her guilt over leaving her family of birth. The thoughts and feelings and responsibilities that no 8 year old should ever have to feel.

And I thought how like that doll she was. Facedown in the grass, with no belongings of her own, left either intentionally or accidentally by the one who had at one point likely loved her very much. I wondered if the child who had dropped or thrown her down missed her. If they knew that she was lying in the grass, naked, probably now dirty, and subject to the rainy skies and the insects.

I went into the office to put my things down and go back and brush the doll off and bring it in to leave at the front desk. But as often happens, the second I walked through the door, people started telling me things and asking me questions. I finally made it to my office to drop off my things and to hook up my computer and to check in with my legal liaison and in the midst of all that activity, I forgot about the doll. Finally, about 20 minutes later, I remembered her and so I went back outside to pick her up, but she was gone.

It’s my hope that her owner came back to retrieve her, in relief that she was finally found. Or that one of my workers picked her up and brushed her off and put her in safekeeping until such time she returned home. I walked back into the building, and back to my office, with just a bit of sadness. That as important as that doll was in that first moment that I saw her, it took so little time for me to forget the image of her abandoned there in the grass.

And I prayed that the images of the broken and abandoned children I work with each day don’t leave my mind and my heart so easily.

That as long as I do this job it will always be my mission to return these broken and abandoned children to people who love them. And until that time, that no matter how many things I am carrying, or how many people need my time, that it will be my priority to pick them up, and clean off the dirt, and wipe away the grass and the ants, and make sure they have clean clothes and a bed of their own. And people to love and cherish them the way that they deserve to be loved and cherished. As precious children of a loving God. Who weeps as she looks down to see her precious babies in need, lying facedown in the grass, waiting for someone who cares to step in and save them.

Is that the tree or the bark talking?

For one of the three campfires that we had this past weekend, we were in need of additional wood to keep the fire going. My friend and her son, who I mentioned in my last blog post, went off to look for additional wood. She was telling me later, as we were standing together on a dock, looking out across the water and at the trees that were standing in the water, how she and her son had come upon a tree that they initially thought was dead because of its appearance and the heavy layers of bark, but when they went to break off the branches, they realized that underneath all that heavy bark, the tree was still very much alive.

She commented that the bark seemed to serve as a protection for the tender part of the tree underneath.

As I stood there and absorbed her words, I realized that I wasn’t unlike that tree. That like that tree, I had built up layers of bark to cover the tender part underneath, as a way of protecting it. But that those heavy layers of bark, which served as a way of protecting the most vital and important parts of myself, caused me to look, and even sometimes feel, and act, dead when there was actually still a lot of life left under all that bark.

But it took stripping off the bark to find the beautiful tree that was hidden under that protective covering.

The thing with stripping bark though, is that once the bark is gone, the tree doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t operate the same.

It’s more tender in spots.

It’s more prone to the effects of the rain, and the wind, and the insects, and the birds.

It’s more vulnerable to things that might hurt it.

But without all that bark weighing it down, it’s also free to grow in ways it wasn’t before.

And that’s a good thing.

But it’s a different thing.

The birds and the squirrels aren’t all going to understand or appreciate that new tree when it doesn’t look or feel the same and when they were perfectly content with the old one. They aren’t going to recognize that it’s actually the same tree that it has always been, but is just a truer form of itself than it was with all that protective covering.

The same is true for people. Shedding bark can be a good thing. It can reveal the beauty that was hidden by all the protection.

But when you shed the bark that people recognize as who you are, not everyone is going to understand or appreciate the newness of who you are underneath.

You’re going to be more tender in spots.

You’re going to be more vulnerable to the changing weather and to the animals which might cause you harm.

But once that bark comes off, you’re not going to want it to go back on.

Because it’s heavy.

And it’s restrictive.

And the binding keeps you from being able to grow the way that you should.

Without all that heavy bark restricting your movements, you can grow into who and what you should have been all along. You can reach your branches to the sky and you can spread into places you weren’t able to go before when you were so weighed down with all those layers of protection.

And honestly? That bark wouldn’t go back on if you tried.

Because sometimes, in the process of falling away, the bark breaks and doesn’t fit back together the way it did before it broke.

As the tree underneath expands and grows, the bark won’t quite cover the area it once did.

And unless you’ve got a really good industrial glue, that stuff isn’t going to stick back anyway.

Because the tree underneath is too smooth. Too vibrant. And too alive to allow for the old bark to stick the way it did before.

And, truthfully, why would you want it to?

Because the process of stripping off bark isn’t an easy one.

It’s painful.

It’s time consuming.

There’s a lot of lost sap and scraped and exposed limbs that happen in the process.

But the part of the tree that you uncover when you remove all the bark that made it appear to be more dead than alive? It is so beautiful. Why would you want to cover that beauty again?

But when the needle sharp drops of rain come, or the high winds that bend those tender branches and blow off those vulnerable leaves, and when the woodpecker and squirrels and other birds come with their sharp nails and their sharp beaks to scratch and peck that vulnerable core, it’s easy to miss the bark that did such a good job of protection for so very long.

And it is easy to start to build up new layers of bark to make things hurt just a little less, to make things feel a little less scary, to keep things that might hurt at just a little more distance. 

But when that temptation comes to build back up those layers of protection to cover the tender and beautiful core underneath, ask yourself this…

Is that the tree or the bark talking?

To build a great campfire

We spent Friday evening and all day Saturday at a family retreat with our church. It was a great time with even greater friends. 

There were long walks with good friends, budding trees, babbling springs, sunlight sparkling on the water like diamonds, and campfires, three of them. 

During the second campfire, one friend and I were joking how we should write a book together about campfires. She would write the technical part of the book on how to build a great campfire, and I would write the color commentary about the philosophical value of the fire. 

Her son chipped in to say that the first thing you need for a great campfire is good wood. To which another friend said, no the first thing you need is good friends. That’s what makes a great campfire. 

And she was so right. So while I will do lots of laundry these next few days in an attempt to get the campfire smell out of all our clothes and jackets, I’ll miss the smell just a bit. Because it reminds me of the joy of sitting around a campfire, admiring the beautiful orange embers, laughing at the kids and enjoying the company, and being blessed by the love and community of some of my favorite people in this world. 

Deconstruction

I’ve heard the term faith deconstruction a lot in my readings over the past few months. I hadn’t realized that’s what I’ve actually been doing over the last few years. I knew I was questioning things I had always believed. I knew I was coming to new conclusions about issues of faith and theology and about the character of God. I knew I was at times burning down spiritual and theological ideas I’ve held my entire life. I knew it was often uncomfortable, frightening, and at times even painful. 

I knew all that.

I just didn’t know what it was called.

So when I first heard the term faith deconstruction defined, I thought, “Huh, so that’s what has been going on.” And it made sense.  Because in many ways I have been deconstructing my faith, and reconstructing it in a way that makes sense to me.

As I read a twitter post the other day, talking about the concept, I realized that what I’ve actually been doing, rather than deconstructing, is less tearing things down and more cleaning things out. Both with my faith over the past few years, and my life over this past year.

Like a huge emotional and spiritual purge.

I’ve realized I’m going about this process much like I go about the process of cleaning out my husband’s garage. My husband has lots of stuff in his garage. Lots of tools. Lots of supplies for all sorts of building, home repair, car maintenance, and every other kind of thing. He’s a handy guy so he owns lots of handy tools. What he doesn’t have an overabundance of is a sense of organization or tendency to put things back where they belong when he is done with them. Consequently, his garage is often a mess. A place he doesn’t use nearly as often as he would like to because he gets frustrated both by the mess and by the inability to easily find the things he needs when he needs them.  So twice now in the 15 years we have lived in this house, I have taken an entire day and cleaned the garage for him. He tries to do this himself from time to time, but he tends to get distracted by things, or caught up in the small areas of organizing without taking it from an overall organization on a big scale, which is what is needed when the garage is in the condition that it gets in.

So here’s how I clean the garage when I have a full day to do so. 

I take everything out of the garage.  Literally everything that is not attached to the walls or the floor or is too heavy for me to lift.

As I take things out of the garage, I pile them in like piles: big tools, small tools, drywall supplies, painting supplies, car maintenance supplies, etc…

I label boxes with appropriate labels and, before I put the big piles into organized and labeled boxes, I clean them off and I look at them to determine whether or not they are things that still have use at our home. If there are too many of the same thing, I get rid of them. Because really who needs 4 identical things that all do the same thing? If there are things that we no longer have a use for, or are broken, or outdated, or just don’t fit in with everything else that we have, I get rid of it too. If it doesn’t serve a purpose, it’s out. Lots of old curtain rods, scrap pieces of wood, and appliances get tossed in this process.

After I go through everything, and get it purged, sorted, and organized into labeled boxes, I clean the garage itself. I clean all the surfaces, removing dirt and dust and grime that has built up. I sweep the floors clear of debris and dirt and grease and leaves. Because I surely don’t want to put all these now organized items back into a dirty room.

And at the end of the day, everything has a place, and is in its place. Things that belong together are placed together. Things that aren’t needed anymore are discarded. There is room to walk around without stepping over things that are out of place and causing a tripping hazard. It’s a place that gives peace instead of a place that causes stress.

So why am I so wordy, and what does this lengthy description of how I clean out our garage have to do with deconstruction anyway?

Actually, it has everything to do with it.

Because it’s been what I’ve been doing with my faith, and with my life.

I have been clearing literally everything out of my soul, and out of my heart, and out of my mind that is not attached to the walls or the floor or is too heavy for me to lift. For those things that have been too heavy to lift by myself, I’ve enlisted the help of a trusted friend.

And as I have taken these things out of my soul, and out of my heart, and out of my mind, I have piled them in like piles: theological beliefs based on my faith tradition and upbringing, theological beliefs I have developed on my own over the past few years, big thoughts and beliefs, small thoughts and beliefs, emotional trauma, memories of abuse and exploitation, shame, labels, limitations, means of self-protection and preservation, etc…

I have labeled boxes with appropriate labels and, before I put the big piles into organized and labeled boxes, I clean them off and I look at them to determine whether or not they are things that still have use in my life. If there are too many thoughts or beliefs that look the same but are just cumulative, I get rid of them. Because really who needs 4 identical things that all do the same thing? If there are thoughts, beliefs,  labels, limitations, or protections that I no longer have a use for, are broken, outdated, or just don’t fit in with everything else that I am beginning to learn about who I am becoming, or about what I am beginning to understand about the character of God, I get rid of those too. If it doesn’t serve a purpose in making me stronger, in making me more fully who God has created me to be, it’s out. Lots of old trauma memories, shame, and religious, societal, and self-imposed limitations have gotten tossed in the process. So have a whole lot of barbed wire and bricks meant to build up walls to protect me from harm but which also resulted in keeping people from truly knowing me and keeping me from truly loving others and making myself vulnerable to be loved by them.

As I have been going through everything, and getting it purged, sorted, and organized into labeled boxes, I have spent time cleaning my soul, my mind, and my heart themselves. I have scrubbed all the surfaces, removing the dirt and dust and grime that has built up. I have swept the floors clear of shame, and blame, unrealistic expectations, unfair limitations, and all the discarded barbed wire and bricks. Because I surely don’t want to put all these now organized items back into a dirty and cluttered soul, or mind, or heart.

And at the end of this process, however long it may take, everything will have a place, and be in its place. Thoughts and beliefs that belong together will be placed together. Thoughts and beliefs and protections that aren’t needed anymore will be abandoned and discarded. There will be room to walk around without stepping over things that are out of place and might cause a tripping hazard. It will be a place that will give peace instead of a place that causes stress.

It will be truly me. As I truly am. As God created me to be. Before someone else came in and made a mess of things and left without cleaning up, or taking their trash with them, or before putting things back where they belonged.

It’s just going to take a little time, a bit of purging and cleaning, some self-reflection, and a whole lot of prayer, to get there.

What is the measure of a life?

I’ve spent a significant amount of time over the past 6 days helping to figure out the best way to notify people of a coworkers significant medical emergency and ultimate death.

It’s something I’ve been useful with because I tend to think very analytically rather than emotionally.

But it has truly sucked, nonetheless.

How do you tell children who have already suffered abuse and neglect that the caseworker that they have come to love and depend on has died?

How do you comfort the coworkers who witnessed her collapse and administered CPR to her until the paramedics arrived? Who called 911 and her husband? Who watched helplessly as the paramedics tried to bring her back? How do you erase those images from their brains and replace them with comfort and peace?

How do you pray for her family, her husband, her children, who loved her so?

How do you measure all the lives that she touched in her short time here?

How do you reconcile why a loving God would allow her to be taken so soon when she was still needed so much?

It is so easy to think that we will live forever, but the truth is that none of us do. We all think we have time. Time to say the things that we need to say, do the things that we need to do, love people the way that they need to be loved.

Sometimes we do. But sometimes we don’t.

Sometimes we have a conversation with a coworker and then walk to the copier and God chooses to take us before we even finish our task.

While I did not know Laurie well, I knew her well enough to know that she would probably be surprised by all the grief that people have felt over her. By all the attention that she has garnered, by all the thought that has been put into handling the best way to let people know about her death. She would probably be embarrassed that so much time has been spent on her and her legacy. She would probably be surprised to know how many lives she touched in a positive way.

You never know the measure of your life until it’s over. You never know the people that you have touched until you are gone.

Live your life in such a way that it takes people a really long time to figure out how they can possibly tell people about your death, because your positive impact on them has been so great. Live a life that you would be embarrassed at the time and attention that people spend on considering you and your legacy.

And say the things you need to say, do the things you need to do, love the people you need to love. Because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone, no matter our age.

What I do know is this

In this Lenten season, we are studying the Apostles Creed both in worship and in our small group. This week we studied the first part of the Creed which reads: “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.”

Our discussion in small group yesterday involved in part what we believe about God. We have an interesting class with people of very different backgrounds which often leads to lively and though provoking conversations. Yesterday was no exception. One of the gentlemen in the class, who is a bit older, and from a different faith background, described his belief that God created the heaven and earth, as the Creed says, but also his belief that God is not directly involved in people’s lives now. He explained his thoughts that if God truly were involved in all the day to day happenings in people’s lives, how could God allow the bad things to happen that do.

It actually isn’t hard for me to understand his thought process. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.

One of the things in this life that I understand least and struggle with most is why God allows bad things to happen. Why God lets people die who still have so much to give and are still needed so much. Why God lets people live who are far past the age and time they want to live, or lets people live who do nothing but cause harm and misery to others. Why God lets little children be tortured and abused and killed by those who are supposed to love them the most. I do not understand these things and I probably never will.

What I do know is this.

In all the darkest times of my life, when things were happening that I did not know or understand, God was there. It was then that I felt the presence of God most strongly and most clearly. It was then that God held me up when I wasn’t able to do so for myself. It was then that God sent people to stand beside me and to give me strength, comfort, and a sense of safety when I couldn’t find those things on my own.

What I do know is this.

God brings beautiful things out of the dust.  I don’t think God allows things to happen so that good can come out of it. I think God allows bad things to happen because we have been given free will and because we live in a broken world. I believe God brings good out of the bad because God is love. I believe that God does the most amazing work in us when we are hurting the most. I believe God always turns broken into beautiful.

What I do know is this.

I can look back on my life and so clearly see the fingerprints of God in the way that I have ended up where I am, with who I am, and as I am. I can so clearly see those fingerprints in the path that God is currently leading me on to live out the call that God has placed in my life. It is so obvious some days that it is almost comical to me.

What I do know is this.

God is now, and always has been, in every part of my life; those in which I welcome that divine intervention and those I do not. God is there. God has walked beside me in the worst parts of my life and in the best. God has walked beside me with pride in me, and in sorrow over the decisions that I have made that hurt myself and hurt God. God has walked beside me in my heartbreak and my brokenness. And God has walked beside me in my joy and my contentment.

What I do know is this.

I will never understand all the things that happen in this world. I will never fully understand the character of God because God is so much bigger than my human mind and my human heart can comprehend. And in my lack of understanding, there are times I will rage at God and the things that happen in this world that God allows.

But here’s what I know about that.

God is big enough to handle that. God is big enough to handle the rage. God is big enough to handle the doubts. God is big enough to handle the questions. God is big enough to handle the sorrow and disappointment when I make wrong decisions and God is big enough to lead me back onto the right path and to never stop loving me along the way.

And I know…

That when my days on this earth are done, whether that be 50 years or 50 minutes from now, my Jesus will be there to walk me home. And my Jesus will be here on earth to comfort those that I leave behind. And hold them up when they can’t stand by themselves. And surround them with people to give them a sense of strength, and comfort, and safety, and to love them through their pain until they can begin to heal.

That is what I know about God.

 

Ashes to oil

Having grown up Southern Baptist, and being in the Southern Baptist faith tradition until about 3 years ago, I had always heard the phrase Easter and Christmas Christians. The phrase referred to those people who only went to church on Easter and Christmas. I never thought that phrase referred to me because I was pretty much always either all in or all out. I either went to church every Sunday or never went at all. There was no in-between.

Since attending the Methodist church and learning so much I never knew before about the liturgical calendar, and about the different seasons, I have realized in many ways I was an Easter and Christmas Christian after all. What I mean by that is that while I went to church most every Sunday, I particularly looked forward to those two particular holidays in the church, because they represented the birth and the resurrection of Jesus. I never knew any of the significance of the seasons preceding those holidays.

Even after beginning to attend the Methodist church, I just kind of skipped over the significance of the seasons preceding the holidays, until this last Advent season. For the first time, I realized what was missing. I had always loved Christmas, and always looked forward to Christmas, but always had this huge let down when it was over, because it seemed there was so much build up for just one day. This past Christmas, in really observing Advent and its meaning, I realized that Christmas was so much more than just that one day, and really tried to lean in to the season of waiting and preparing which led up to the arrival of the Christ child.

Because of the blessing of recognizing the significance of Advent, I have really been looking forward to the idea of, for the first time, really observing the Lenten season and what it signifies. Up until now, the only real familiarity I have had with Lent is from having been married to a mostly unobservant Catholic for three years. I understood Lent as a time of sacrifice, but never really understood it as a season of transformation. As I was searching Pinterest this morning for an image that I could hold on to as remembrance this Lenten season, I came across a larger image containing the content of the cropped image you see here.

When I read the scripture from Isaiah 61, and read the comment underneath, it was as if my entire body breathed in deeply as my spirit breathed out “Ohhh….”

This.

This is what Lent is about.

This is what life is about right now.

A garland instead of ashes.

Oil of gladness instead of mourning.

The mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.

A movement of ashes to oil.

Restoration for a wounded world.

This is what I am called to.

I have seen so much of this transformation in my own life in this past year. Now it’s time to turn it to others.

As I observe Ash Wednesday today, and absorb into my spirit all that it means, I pray:

Gracious God, as you lead me through this season of Lent, let me always keep my focus on you. Let me remember your son and his sacrifice. Let me remember your son and his example of love. For all people, of all backgrounds, in all situations. Lead me, in concert with the holy spirit, to assume the healing vocation of all humans, to bring restoration to this wounded world. Guide me with your wisdom to be the love that is needed in this place to bring oil of gladness instead of mourning. Thank you for the gift of your son, of your love each and every day, and of the call that you have placed in me to love others as you love. Without limits. Without regard to skin color, cultural or religious background, gender identity, sexual orientation, past history, or present sin. Thank you for your goodness and your grace in loving me, despite all the times that I have fallen short of your plan for me. Thank you for believing in me enough to pick me back up and give me the chance to try again. I pray in the name of your precious son. Amen.

Following the call

I took Clayton to the North Texas Pride Festival in Plano late last spring. While there, we saw a booth for a parent support group sponsored by and hosted at a Presbyterian Church in McKinney. I never really considered myself a support group person, but as a parent trying to learn how to be the best parent I could be to my gay child, I decided it might be helpful to meet other parents who knew what it was like. The next meeting was during our vacation, but I finally made it to a meeting in the summer. It didn’t take me long to feel at home there, with people who were on all different journeys on their paths as parents, siblings, friends and allies of LGBTQ+ loved ones, or adult members of the LGBTQ+ community. 

After about 3 meetings, I began to wonder whether there might be a need for this same resource within my own church and my own community. Many conversations with my pastor followed, which led to a conversation with the wonderful and supportive facilitator of the group in McKinney, which led to conversations with others in our church who had a place at the table for planning this group, which led to the forming of a core group of persons, that we named our Open Hearts Steering Committee. A part of our group met for the first time in January, and after presenting the idea to our church leadership, began the steps to move forward with both the support group and LGBTQ+ Ally training both for our group and for our church leadership. A second meeting followed in February where we discussed how to best support our LGBTQ+ youth, and things began to quickly fall into place with a group of committed, safe, and affirming adults, pulling together to be a safe and supportive place for kids who aren’t finding that place within their own homes or their schools.

And in the midst of creating that space for some kids, a group of adults has formed an incredibly strong, almost supernatural, bond that none of us expected, and most of us didn’t even know we needed.

But God knew.

Yesterday, 42 people crammed into our tiny ministry space to learn how to be allies for the LGBTQ+ community. 

Tonight we sat in a circle, the 8 of us who started this journey just 2 months ago, with three new additions, and made plans to open wide our circle to those who need to join us, beginning next month, 5 months sooner than we originally had planned. Less than one week after the decisions of the general conference which, although they disappointed us, did not devastate us because God had already created a safe place for us to land.

I have spent the last few days absorbing the magnitude of all that has happened within this group over the last few months. Only three months actually since we started making serious plans. I was thinking of all the parts that God moved into place during the time we were just trying to figure out how the heck we could do this. And God did it all while we were wondering.

And for the first time in the last couple of days, I think I really acknowledged my role in this.

Clearly this was work that needed to be done.

Clearly God was ready to do it.

But it wouldn’t be happening in the way that it is at the time that it is if God had not placed the need and the call within me to make this happen. 

God placed this need in my heart because there was a need in others.

I am humbled by that call.

For all the times that I have ignored God’s direction for my life, I am so grateful that this one time I chose to follow.

Because what God has done has been so far greater than anything I could ever have imagined or dreamed. 

For myself.

And for others.

Someone, somewhere, was depending on me to do what God had called me to do.

Someone, somewhere, is depending on you for the same.

Don’t miss it.

Because the blessings are great.

And if you’re lucky, you just might find a tribe you never knew you needed, but that you will soon realize you don’t want to live your life without.