Give blood. Give life.

I spent much of my free time the latter part of March and the first couple of weeks of April working on a paper that I was writing for the seminary class I took this semester. After I finished writing it, I sent it to Aaron to review and edit for me. It’s handy to have a really bright kid who also happens to be a really good writer and possibly owes you a few paper edits because you’ve proofread about a bazillion of his papers and college essays over the years.

After sending it to him, I thought what an incredible gift it was to be able to share this part of myself with him, the way that he has been able to share it with me. That thought was followed with what an incredible gift it is to have him here with me at all and healthy enough to share it with.

I enjoy Timehop very much because I love seeing photos of the boys when they were much younger, and I enjoy the trip down memory lane each day. But sometimes something will pop up that is hard for me. Sometimes a quote I posted because of something I was going through at the time. Sometimes a photo or a memory of someone who isn’t here anymore. The photos that showed up at the time I sent him that paper were especially hard for me to see because they were from Easter weekend two years ago. 

It was at a time when he had literally been sick more days than he had been well for 9 plus months. We had decided to take a family camping trip for the long weekend. Partly because it had been a really challenging and difficult school year with Aaron being so very sick and because we had not had any quality time together in such a long time. Partly because I wanted to be able to take him away so that he would be able to just rest and relax and not feel like he had to be doing anything other than sleep late and lay in a hammock all day.

He had just been diagnosed with a primary immune deficiency a month earlier. With that diagnosis, we finally had an answer to what had caused the three bouts of pneumonia, two bouts of whooping cough, and countless other illnesses that had caused him to be so ill in the 9 months prior. He was diagnosed with an illness called chronic variable immune deficiency which causes him to have limited immunities against many severe and potentially life threatening illnesses. 

He was due to begin treatment the Monday after Easter, and we were just trying to hold on to him until then, praying that he would rally quickly. Because, quite honestly, the sweet boy that we knew and loved so much was fading before our eyes. What we would not know for another month was that part of the reason he was again so sick, and had been so sick for the two months prior, was a particularly dangerous and rare bacteria that had invaded his lungs and had the potential to move to his brain. 

Aaron was so blessed to have doctors who would not give up on finding answers to his illnesses. Who were dedicated to finding a diagnoses that explained what was going on with him and a treatment that would give him back his quality of life. 

He has been fortunate to have responded very well to the IVIG treatments that he received every three weeks for a year and a half, and to the subcutaneous treatments he has received each week for the past 9 months.

We have been blessed by good insurance which pays more than $1000 a week for these treatments that have literally saved his life. 

But the treatment that has given him back his life, and has given back the lives of so many others like him with compromised immune systems, is not possible without selfless persons who are willing to donate plasma.

If you have ever felt a need to help someone in need, but didn’t think you had the talent or ability to do so, please consider plasma donation. The life you save could be someone’s mother or father or brother or sister or husband or wife or child. The life you save could be my child’s. 

When I was helping Aaron proofread and edit his college essays last year, I read one that he wrote that broke my heart. He wrote of the period in which he was so sick. And what he said was this, “I had the faith that I was going to get well, but I’m not sure that my parents did.” 

As a parent, you try to shield your children from anything in life that might hurt or scare them. Sometimes they see far more than you realize they see, despite your very best efforts to protect them. 

Sometimes they see you being more scared than they ever thought you would be. And sometimes they see you be more brave than you ever knew you had the courage to be.

But the truth is, most of the bravery I have, I learned from Aaron. Because despite how bad he felt, how bad he still sometimes feels, he keeps going. He could use his disease as an excuse for not being all that he could be, but instead he uses it as a motivation to be the best that he can be. In the two years since beginning treatments, he has been through more than 60 infusions. For almost a year and a half, he spent a full day every three weeks at a doctor’s office with an IV running three bottles of immunoglobulin into his bloodstream. Since last September, he, or a good friend of his, or a good friend of Clayton’s, or I, have inserted three separate needles into his abdomen each and every week, starting the two hour process of delivering the medication which keeps him well. 

I write this post today as he is wrapping up his weekly infusion of the liquid gold that keeps him healthy. Today wraps up the month of April, which is also primary immune deficiency awareness month. But for Aaron, and others who don’t have immune systems that work as they should, that’s every month. 

If you can, please consider plasma donation. You may never know whose life you may save.

The beauty of what is before us

When I was in college and in law school, I was sure that God had plans for me to work with kids. But the problem was I didn't really like kids that much. So I tried different things. I worked at a Montessori school while in college. For three days. Because I hated it and I wanted to pinch their little lemon heads off.

I tried different areas of children and youth ministry in the church I attended in law school, working with different age groups in different programs. But I just didn't like it and I just wasn't good at it. And I wondered what I was doing wrong because the call seemed so clear.

It wasn't until I had been doing attorney ad litem work with abused and neglected children for a number of years that I realized I actually was working with kids. Not at all in the way I had expected, but in a powerful and effective way, all the same. And unlike all those ways I had tried, when I was doing things my own way, I was very good at it.

In the same way, I felt, for many years, since I decided in college that I was going to go to law school, that I was supposed to be a judge someday. I took steps toward that goal more than once in my career but it never worked out the way that I was sure it was supposed to. It’s only been within the past probably 4-5 years that I’ve realized I don’t feel that call anymore.

And then this past summer, I realized a call to ministry that I never would have dreamed or imagined, which has led me to beginning seminary this past January.

On this past Christmas Eve, I attended the midnight candlelight service at the mother church my church is associated with. On Sundays, I go to church in an elementary school cafeteria that is converted each week to worship space. It’s a very different setting than the beautiful church sanctuary with the stained glass windows. And so for only the second time, I saw my pastor wearing a clerical robe and the Christmas stole I had made her. While I had seen her wearing clerical stoles before at women’s retreats, and I had seen her in her full clerical attire at last summer’s annual conference, I had never seen her in the full attire, living out her pastoral calling, in a church setting. Black robes and silk stoles are a bit dressy for a converted elementary school cafeteria, you see.

And so, as I was sitting in this beautiful sanctuary, on this sacred night, listening to the lead pastor of the church, I noticed his robe, and that of one of the male associate pastors, and that of my own pastor. And because I tend to have random thoughts, even when I’m sitting in church, I began to think about the way the robe looked different on my female pastor because of the different cut and style and because of the shirts and ties the men wore underneath their robes. And I thought about Judge Caton who was the first female judge I ever practiced in front of. She always wore a shirt with a bow or a scarf or something to feminize her robe. And I thought about how my pastor’s beautiful and colorful stoles had the same effect as Judge Caton’s scarves or bows. It was then that it occurred to me for the first time that if this ministry call leads to ordination that there will be times I will wear a robe. Very similar to the robe I would’ve worn had I become a judge, as I thought had been God’s plan for so many years.

As with the call to work with kids didn’t turn out to look the way I expected, the call to wear that black robe looks a bit different as well. I was right about God’s call both times. I just didn’t have the vision to see it the way that God saw it. It is both the same and yet very different, all at the same time.

This job of representing CPS that I have been blessed with for the past 2.5 years was one I was pretty sure I was supposed to be doing for 1-2 years before it finally ended up working out. Doing this work has taught me so much, and has given me so much. It has given me back my confidence in my abilities as an attorney that I lost somewhere along the way and has, in so many unexpected ways, taught me compassion for those people most people would not feel compassion for. The difference in how I see this work now, as opposed to how I saw it when I began, is huge. Rather than my heart becoming jaded, it has grown softer. The grace that I extend to the parents with whom I work is far greater than it was before I started this job. I am far more attuned to the hurt and the damage that is suffered by these parents and their children. I see more clearly than ever in what ways our system is broken, but at the same time, I recognize all the amazing people who work within the confines of that wounded system.

It is the recognition of the wounded hearts of the children, the parents, and the professionals within the system that lead me to write about them from time to time. What if the calling to be in this job has nothing to do with the job itself but has a larger purpose in making people aware of the things in this world they may know nothing about?

What if learning to be compassionate to those most people would have no compassion for has nothing at all to do with being a great lawyer and everything to do with learning to become a great pastor?

I have realized over the past months that the transition from being an attorney advocate and mediator to being a pastor in some fashion isn’t as odd as I initially thought. So many of the skills that I have learned over the past 25 years of practicing law and mediating lend themselves so well to ministering to people who are hurting. While I have done some good in these 25 years, maybe the real reason I’ve done the work I have done was for reasons I would have never imagined when I started this journey.

Sometimes the call on our life changes. Sometimes the actual call God has for us doesn’t look at all like what we thought the call was.  

Sometimes the plans that we make for ourselves aren’t always the ones that God has in mind. We can become so disappointed and disillusioned in what should have been but wasn’t, that we miss the joy in what actually is. 

We miss the beauty in what God is doing if we are so busy holding on to the vision we have of what was, or what we thought was supposed to be, instead of focusing on the beauty of what is before us.

May you boldly speak your name

Do you see him?

He's the flamboyant kid with the eyeliner and the bleached hair and the pink shorts, who dares you to question who he is. He's the kid who seems so confident in who he is that you think he can't possibly be bothered by the slurs that he hears as he passes the other kids in the hall.

Fag.

Pansy.

Homo.

But inside, a piece of him dies each time the darts hit their mark.

Do you see him?

What about her?

Do you see her?

She's the quiet kid who comes into class and doesn't make eye contact because she's afraid of what people will say to her. She's afraid of what people will see. She is afraid what her parents, her friends, her teachers, her church, will say or do if they know the truth that she likes girls instead of boys.

Do you see her?

Over the last few days, I have seen several news articles about the teenage boy in Huntsville, Alabama who took his life because of anti-gay bullying he had suffered that he got to the point he could no longer endure.

Did anyone see him?

Did they see the damage they did with their words?

With their judgement?

With their ignorance?

With their hate?

Each time I hear a story like the one that has played out this week, of a child taking their life because of the hate they endured for being gay, my heart breaks.

For them.

For their family.

For all those who loved them.

For all that they could have become but never will.

It breaks my heart any time a child, or adult, chooses to end their life because their pain is so deep they think they can't dig out from underneath it.

My heart breaks extra when that pain they are suffering is from ignorance or hatred or judgment because their sexuality or their gender identity doesn't fit the mold that society thinks it should.

Because of who they are.

Because of who God made them to be.

I had the opportunity to sit in a room tonight with a group of straight and queer adults, and straight and queer youth, all allies for each other. It's the third time I've had the opportunity to sit with these people, and the 5th time they have had the chance to meet together.

I have heard coming out stories that have made my heart break.

I have heard a beautiful daughter of God tell stories of how she felt in life that she had to make a decision about being gay or being a Christian, and despite how hard she tried, she couldn't not be gay.

I see the healing that has come to that beautiful woman because of the love and acceptance she feels from this motley group of teenagers and adults.

I have sat and listened to two precious teenage boys describe how they each, at different times and places, during the time they were realizing that they were gay and trying to come to terms with that fact, stood in front of their mirrors and repeated to themselves over and over, "I am straight. I am not gay. I am straight."

I see the confidence each of those boys now have because they know, without a doubt, that they are fully loved, fully affirmed, and fully supported by their pastor, a strong group of loving and vocal friends, and an amazing group of straight and queer adults who are standing before, beside, and behind them, as they walk what isn't always an easy road.

This group of adults and teenagers has come together in a way that is God designed and God directed. The purpose isn't to convert or to proselytize or to convince these kids of anything. The purpose is to love these kids, and to love each other. Because when that happens? All that other stuff just falls into place.

If you question whether homosexuality is a choice, sit and talk to someone you know who is queer. Ask them about their journey. Ask them about their pain. Ask them not about when they decided to be gay but about when they realized they were gay. And then ask yourself when you decided you were straight. Oh, wait, you didn't?

Oh, but I don't know anyone who is queer, you may say. Yes, Yes you do. They just haven't come out to you because they don't feel safe with you to do so.

And when you have that conversation? Don't bring your theology with you. Bring your God with you. That, my friends, will make all the difference.

Can you see her?

Can you see her? 

It’s just after sunrise. It’s not yet fully light. She goes, to serve her Jesus. It’s her last act of devotion she can show to him this side of Heaven. 

This Jesus, he has changed everything for her. 

He freed her from her demons and her broken past. 

He lifted her up and called her  Beloved. Precious. Cherished. 

He gave her worth she did not know she had. 

In turn, she showed strength and dedication few others possessed. 

She was one of the last to stay with him as he hung on the cross. Long after the male disciples had fled, she stayed. Tortured, I’m sure, by his agony. But she refused to leave him alone. 

Because he had changed everything. 

I imagine that Saturday must have been so very long. There were things that must be done. There was honor that must be given. Her Jesus lay there in the tomb, unwashed, unloved, without honor or care. She had to show her love and commitment to him this one last time. 

For he had changed everything. 

So, early that morning, she set out with her spices. To do this one last thing. 

Her heart was broken. 

Her hope was gone. 

But she went. 

While the male disciples hid, in their fear, their grief, their uncertainty, she went. Because there were things that had to be done for her Jesus. 

Because he had changed everything. 

Can you see her? 

Can you see her wondering at who would move the heavy stone? 

Can you see her fear and confusion as she saw the open tomb, the stone rolled away?

Can you see her grief, and her loss, as bitter as the Friday prior, as her Jesus gasped his last words and breathed his final tortured breath? 

Her Jesus was gone. Taken. 

And the one thing she had to do, the last thing she could do, was now impossible. 

Her last chance to give to him, her last chance to love him, had been stolen from her. And her heart, which she thought could be broken no more, bled anew. 

Because he had changed everything. 

Can you see her as she meets the angels? Can you feel her confusion as they tell her that he is not there. That he has risen, as he said. She must have felt the object of a cruel and heartless joke. 

Can you see her?

Can you see her as she meets the man she mistakes as a gardener. As she begs to know where they have taken her Jesus. She is desperate now. She has lost so much. Must she suffer this loss too?

Can you see her?

As Jesus looks at her. In her pain. In her sorrow. In her complete lack of hope. And in her deep, deep love. 

And he calls her by name. 

Mary. 

Can you see her? As she recognizes her Lord. Her Jesus. 

The one who changed everything. 

Can you see her? 

As her beloved tells her to go and to tell the others. As he gives her, this lowly woman, this woman, with the broken heart,  and the broken past, the commandment to proclaim the truth. The power to witness to the miracle she has seen. 

Can you see her?

Jesus did. 

When others did not, Jesus did. 

And it changed everything. 

Planting seeds

I went to Lowe’s after work yesterday to buy flower seeds and potting soil because I needed to plant flowers today. Partly because I’m stubborn and don’t like to ask for help, and partly because I needed to do it by myself, I hauled the heavy bags of soil off the ground, and into the cart, and then into my car, all on my own. I opened the seeds last night to let them soak in preparation for today’s planting. 

When I was young, my dad always planted a vegetable garden on Good Friday. Most years I would help him and it kind of become our thing. My dad worked two jobs so there wasn’t much time spent with him while I was growing up, so this was a special and unique time. 

After Mike and I started dating, I again began the tradition most years of planting a vegetable garden on Good Friday. It was always a day I thought of my dad and the simple yet special time that we used to spend together. 

Last year, the week of Holy Week was a time I was in the process of deep personal and spiritual deconstruction, and deep personal work. It was a time where I was doing the hard work of finally saying goodbye to my dad in ways I never had. Planting vegetables didn’t feel right. But I needed the experience and the hope of seeing God bring something from dust. 

So I spent part of Good Friday planting flowers. And I spent the next few months watching those flowers grow and bloom from tiny seeds. And as they sprouted and grew, I began to heal. Slowly, like the flowers. 

As Good Friday approached this year, I planned again to plant flowers. Because I am still in a season of healing and growth. And have realized that’s a lifelong journey. 

So on this day of remembering the sacrificial death of my Jesus, and his burial, and the waiting for new life, I commemorate that in ways maybe a little untraditional. But meaningful to me all the same. 

Because God brings beautiful things out of dust. And sometimes flowers bloom. 

The Island of Misfit Toys

I spent time this morning talking to my caseworkers and my casework supervisors about how best to deal with kids in CPS care coming to court, and the difficulties and challenges in having that happen, and the difficulties and challenges of attorneys representing kids who are placed far away, when there are limited financial resources available to pay the attorneys to go see these kids.

We talked about the ineffectiveness of trying to establish a relationship with a kid through phone calls instead of actually sitting with them in person, and spending time getting to know them.

I was talking to a friend who is a professional in a different area of connection to kids last week, and we were talking about the bonds that are often formed with adolescents and teenagers over ice cream or other food, or time spent in the car, when they can feel free to talk to you without the discomfort of having you stare them in the face or look them in the eye.

I thought about a story that a very dear attorney friend told me a few weeks ago. She is one of the best attorneys ad litem that I know. Because she takes the time to know her kids and to listen to their stories so that she can be the voice in court that they need and deserve.

She told of a recent day that she came to court for hearings, and there were a group of teenagers sitting outside the courtroom, waiting their turn to go in and be a part of their own hearings, where a group of adult professionals would talk about what ought to be happening with their lives.

She said they were sitting there, mostly sullen, not really wanting to be there and bored by the wait on cold hard benches in a cold sterile hall. She noticed them playing a hand held video game that she recognized, and she commented to them, “Hey, I play that game on x-box.” Now this attorney isn’t one you would probably expect to play x-box. Certainly these teenage boys did not expect that. “You play x-box?” they said to my friend, who with her fabulous mane of gray hair and twinkling eyes, fully fits her self-proclaimed moniker as the grannie lawyer.

And they spent the next few minutes talking about video games, having made a connection none of them would have expected, and one that would not have occurred but for the unlikely common ground that they shared.

She made the comment about how so many of these kids with whom we work are just like the toys from the island of broken toys.

I thought about how true that was of so many of the kids from hard places that end up in the child welfare system.

I thought about how true that is of so many of us who choose to work in this field.

All of us with some of our pieces and parts missing or damaged. Maybe an eye that’s sewn on a little crooked. Or a leg that doesn’t bend all the way like it should. A wheel that skips a bit as it rolls, and maybe lists to the side instead of rolling straight.

Workable still, and worthy of love, but a little less perfect than when it started out because it was handled just a little too roughly somewhere along the way.

But despite the imperfections, the thing that we share is that need for connection. That need to find people who get us. Whether it’s because they share the love of our favorite video game, or our love of reading, or our love of curse word socks, or whatever it is that brings us joy.

We need, all of us need, people who care about us despite our missing or broken parts. Who see beyond the damage and the imperfection to the heart of the person underneath. Who value the uniqueness and the worth we each carry, even when we think others don’t see it and even when we sometimes don’t see it in ourselves.

I am grateful for the amazing professionals that I work with who love these kids who need it the most. The CPS workers, CASA volunteers, and attorneys ad litem. The professionals who don’t know what it is to go to work at 8 and leave at 5 and enjoy nights and weekends free of worry and stress. The foster parents who love kids they didn’t bear as much as they love their own.

The people who recognize that just because someone looks a little different, or carries a few scars, or imperfections, doesn’t render them unworthy of love and care.

The people who recognize that being Jesus in this world means stepping outside your comfort zone and doing things that make you scared, or things that make you hurt, or things that make you angry, and who every day risk having their hearts broken so a child maybe doesn’t have to.

The people who are willing to make themselves vulnerable for those who are vulnerable through no choice of their own.

The people who are willing to pick up the broken pieces and to use a little glue, and a bit of duct tape, and a whole lot of love, to help stick things back together.

These people are my heroes. 

And they are beautiful.

Despite their own broken pieces and parts.

When grief has a visible presence

I had court this morning with an attorney who recently lost his young adult son in a tragic accident. While we had corresponded by email and text, this was the first time I had seen him in person since the death. Watching him in the courtroom, asking questions about the child that we were there to talk about, almost broke me. He looked so much older than the last time that I saw him, before his son’s death, and he seemed almost frail.

His grief was a palpable presence around him, surrounding him like a shroud or a cloud of mist.

I had difficulty concentrating on the questions that he was asking, because all I could think of was how difficult it must be for him to ask questions about a child whose parents could not care for him, when he would have given anything, I am sure, to have just one more day to care for his.

Grief is an oppressive weight on the heart, and on the soul, and on the mind. It is often accompanied by a host of what if questions and guilt that, while unfounded, is still very present.

We lost a coworker a few weeks ago, and it is only now that the office has begun to go back to some semblance of feeling normal. And yet there is that pang of loss, each time I, or someone else, comes across her name in a court report or an order. There is that sense of disbelief and shock, all over again, that someone so young was taken so suddenly. There is the remembrance that, for her family, nothing will ever feel normal again.

Our conversation in our small group this past Sunday, in wrapping up our study on the Apostles Creed, was on death, and on the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. We often have deep and at times emotional conversations in our class, but never one before where there were so many teary eyes or hurting hearts. 

While there were differences of opinion about our thoughts on death and how we want the actual death experience to occur, the biggest thing we all agreed on was our fear of dying at a time when we are still needed by our families, by our children. 

Having been only 22 when my dad died, I was still at an age where I needed him a great deal. His wisdom, his advice, his direction. And his death left a hole that has never been filled. I fear the same for my coworker’s children who are even younger than I was. 

I fear the same for my attorney friend, in the loss of his son. What I have learned from all the friends and family I have known who have lost a child, is that loss is a wound that never fully heals. The shroud may become lighter, and the mist may become thinner, but they never fully go away.

So today I pray for comfort and peace for my friend in the loss and grief that he experiences. I pray for my coworkers family as they learn to adjust to a new normal and all that entails. I pray for all those that have lost those that they love, long before they were ready to let them go.

And I pray for eyes that see the visible presence of grief in those around me, and a spirit of love  to provide what comfort I can, in whatever way that I can.

Antique roses

We live in a house that is more than 100 years old, on a piece of property just under 2 acres, with many large trees as old as the house, or older. We also have plants and flowers that come back each year, which is fortunate, because my thumbs are brown rather than green. 

My three favorite flowers that grow at our house are the four o’clock that blooms around my back porch, the honeysuckle vines that cover the fence separating the two parts of our property, and this huge old antique rose bush that grows next to the house, between our front and back porches. 

The rose bush is huge, and each spring, it blooms with the most beautiful and fragrant pink roses. You can smell the flowers as soon as you step out the door or near the porch. It is an intoxicating scent. But the rosebush only blooms once per year, and then it lies dormant until the next spring. I am always so excited when it starts to bloom, and so sad when the blooming season, which only lasts about two weeks, is over.

I had noticed last week that the bush had begun to show buds, but it wasn’t until this morning after I got in my car to go to work and glanced over at the house that I realized those buds had begun to bloom. I put the car in park, unplugged my phone, and stepped out into the mud to get close enough to get photos. Because I wanted to remember what the roses looked like for the time when they are gone.

As I walked back to my car, I thought what a shame it was that the rose bush only bloomed once a year and then was essentially barren the rest of the year. I thought about how most people who come to our house never know what beauty this bush graces us with, unless they happen to come over during that short season that it is covered in the most beautiful and fragrant flowers.

As those thoughts went through my mind, I thought how many people are like my antique rose bush. They do incredibly amazing, powerful, and beautiful things from time to time. Things that take your breath away, and bring immeasurable joy to your life for a season. And then once they have completed their amazing task, whatever it might be, they step back into the shadows, appearing to be nothing but an overgrown, in need of maintenance, barren bush. 

When you glance at them in their off season, without knowing or remembering how breathtaking they were for a short but glorious time, you wonder what their purpose could possibly be. They are just in the way of the trashcans. They prick you with their sharp thorns when you try to get past them to turn on the water hose. 

You wonder why someone doesn’t just seriously chop the useless eyesore down. 

But if they did, think of the beauty that would be destroyed. Think of the glory that would never be experienced again. The object that is an overgrown and seemingly useless eyesore 90% of the time would be gone, but so would the magic during that brief time when incredibly amazing, powerful, and beautiful things happen. Things that you miss if you don’t pay attention.

Some people, like antique roses, only bloom for short periods. But during those periods, oh they are glorious. 

Don’t overlook or be irritated by those who might seem a little overgrown, barren, useless, or even downright prickly. Because, in their time, they create some of the most beautiful and fragrant flowers in the garden.

And life is infinitely more beautiful because of them.

Fire drills

Although I work for the district attorney’s office rather than CPS, my office is at the CPS office rather than the DA’s office because it makes more practical sense for me to have easy access to my workers and for them to have easy access to me. Most days that is very convenient. Some days it is a pain in my neck because I get interrupted.

ALL. THE. TIME.

I’m not sure if adaptability is my greatest strength on the Clifton Strengths Finder because of this job, or if I do this job well because of that strength. In any case, it comes in handy.

Most days I don’t much mind the distraction of people popping in to see me. But there are days where my ability to people is limited, and it’s a struggle to summon the energy to not only be friendly but be helpful and even wise.

There are days that I have a lot to accomplish in a finite amount of time, and I am challenged to get that done with lots of interruptions because my personality type has difficulty focusing on specific tasks when there are other more immediate needs or distractions to focus on instead.

Today was a day of both limited peopling ability and need to accomplish a lot of things.

So, after a bit of a rough start to the day, I was finally able to really focus on things without interruption, and I settled into a rhythm where I was getting lots of things accomplished. And I was feeling good about things.

And then one of the facility guys walks down the hall and tells us that they are going to do a fire drill. And you can literally hear the groans echoing down the hall as the message spreads. Nobody was feeling the love of a fire drill this morning. People started to drift out of their offices and their cubicles and for a good 5 minutes, we all stood around complaining, and waiting, and figuring out where exactly the alarms were, to ensure that we weren’t  standing directly underneath one when it went off.

After a while, when nothing happened, people drift back to their workspaces and the office grew quite again, in only the way that an office normally filled with the laughter and voices of children can grow.

I got back to the work that I was doing, but with the constant thought of not wanting to start something that was going to be hard to get back into if interrupted.

Eventually, the alarms did go off, and even though we were expecting it, everyone jumped just a little. We grabbed our phones, some our purses, and headed out the back door. As we walked to the end of the parking lot, I thought to myself, hey at least the sun is shining and it’s warm. We joked about it being an office get together without the food.

And then, almost as soon as it began, we got the word that the office had been cleared and we were free to go back to work.

My immediate thought was, what? But it’s warm out here. And I’m out here with people that I actually really like but don’t get to spend time just talking with about things other than work. And it’s good to be on my feet instead of in my chair at my desk. Can’t we make this last just a bit longer?

We all headed back to our offices and, again, the office settled into that somewhat unnatural, childless, quiet.  We all got back to the tasks we were at before the interruption of the fire drill. 

And I thought to myself, how often do we let the prospect of some unexpected and unwanted interruption throw us off our routine, and out of our comfort zones, just to realize that not only was the interruption not as bad as we thought it would be, but was actually a nice break in the ordinary fabric of our days and our lives?

How often do we view those interruptions as inconveniences rather than blessings? What if, instead of focusing on the negative part of the experience, on the thoughts that we do not have the time, or the energy, or the attention, to have our routines interrupted, we think instead, what good could I pull out of this? How could I use this interruption to make a connection to someone I might not have otherwise made today? How can I enjoy this unexpected break in my day? How can I focus instead on the opportunity that this interruption provides: the ability to breathe in the fresh air for a moment; the chance, however brief, to feel the sun on my skin.

Maybe instead of seeing the burden, we should look for the blessing. In fire drills. In the needs of the people around us. In all the ways that our days are interrupted, disrupted, and otherwise stood on their heads. 

Because, sometimes, those interruptions that we resent the most? They become one of the brightest spots in our days. If we just learn to look at them with our hearts and minds open to the opportunity, rather than the inconvenience.

Cloud of Witnesses

In this season of my life, I have found that God brings to me scripture or stories or images that I have heard or seen my entire life but that I have never truly understood until now. And maybe because I’m stubborn and have to hear something more than once, or maybe because God just really wants me to understand the message she is trying to relay to me, she brings those scriptures, those stories, those images, to me, over and over and over again. To the point that I’m often like, “I get it, God. I get it. Really I do, so you can stop with this anytime now.”

This happened to me last summer with the story of Moses.  Moses was everywhere. Moses popped up All. The. Time. That happens sometimes when God gives you a call that is so far outside who you thought you would ever be or outside anything you thought you would ever do.  You get Moses.

The message of late for me has been the concept of the cloud of witnesses. Until recently, whenever I heard that term, I always thought of it as those saints who have gone on before us. Those persons: family, friends, teachers, others, who have made an impact on our life and on who we are as people.

It’s only been in the last couple of months or so, as I have seen that phrase again and again, in different readings, in different teachings, that I have realized that each person’s cloud of witnesses is so much more than just those who have gone before. It is those who walk beside.

I am working my way through a book right now that is a very painful one for me. I can’t read much of it at a sitting and I have to put it aside after a couple of days before I can go back to it again, because it strips bare so many of my ideas about who I have envisioned myself to be because of my trauma, and makes me look at who I really am under that and who it is that God sees. And that is painful, soul-shattering, yet ultimately soul-healing, kind of work.

One of the things that I read in this book a couple of weeks ago that has stuck with me in a powerful and meaningful way is the following quote: “the ‘cloud of witnesses’ is a large body of real people whose job it is to cheer us on to faith and wholeness. Their light illumines our darkness. Their warmth brings comfort and hope on cold, hard days.”

That quote is the best definition of deep friendship that I have ever read except that it is really so much more. Those who walk beside us, who truly walk beside us, are so much more than just our friends. Those whose “job it is to cheer us on to faith and wholeness” become our families in ways that our blood relatives rarely can.

Those whose light illumines our darkness and whose warmth brings comfort and hope on cold, hard days, are the most special people who allow God to use them  to be the hands and feet of Jesus to us in a real way each and every day.

I am so blessed by an incredible cloud of witnesses. A group of women who literally surround me with their wisdom, and their ears, and their love.

A group of women who tell me things I don’t always want to hear and make me listen to them when I would rather not.

A group of women who tell me they love me, and continue to tell me they love me, because they know that a large part of me doesn’t believe them because I don’t think I’m worthy of that love.

A group of women who are teaching me, in their deep love for me, and in my deep love for them, how to love myself in ways that I never have.

A group of women who value me in ways I don’t value myself, and see worth in me I sometimes refuse to recognize. A group of women who are teaching me to recognize that value and worth in myself.

A group of women who will give up their time, their sleep, even cookies, and comfort, to sit with me in coffee shops, on hard floors, and dock benches, and stairwells, and truck beds, so that they can listen to me as I talk, or hold me as I cry.

A group of women who recognize when I am having a bad day and am just heavy, who will text me during the day just to see how I am, who will invade my personal space, and co-cuddle me in the most awkward of ways, when I so desperately need healing, safe, and positive touch, but I’m too afraid to ask for it.

A group of women who will rub my back, and hug me tight, and just sit with me, without words, so that I don’t have to be alone.

A group of women who I have come to trust to hold my hands and hold my heart in ways I have never allowed anyone to do before.

A group of women who have vowed to chase me down if I run away from them, as is my instinct when I allow someone to get too close to the inner core of who I am.

A group of women who have adopted me and who have become the sisters that I always wanted but never had.

This a story I am grateful that God has brought to me again and again. A story that I will never get tired of hearing. Or tired of telling. Or tired of living.

This is my cloud of witnesses.

Wounded healers

I had the amazing opportunity this past week to travel to Leawood, Kansas, to Church of the Resurrection, the beautiful Methodist church pastored by Adam Hamilton, and spend Thursday and Friday learning best practices for congregational care. In addition to getting to spend time getting to know a new friend, spending life-giving time with two other precious friends, and standing in a sanctuary with a massive stained glass panel that both gave me chills and took my breath away simultaneously, I learned lots of things about the best ways of being a support to people hurting and in need.

And the truth is, despite two full days of information input, what I most took out of the two days of training wasn’t at all the practical tips for how to provide congregational care.

What I most took out of those two days was the deep and heartfelt understanding that God uses those who have been brutally broken in the worst of ways to provide love and care to others who are suffering.

Because those who have walked their own paths of loss, abuse, oppression, or grief, can walk beside those going through the same in ways others may want to understand but just cannot. As Pastor Hamilton shared at one point in the training, “People who have experienced hurt and pain make the most profound caregivers.”

The term “wounded healers” is often used to describe those who have walked hard roads and who have used the lessons learned on those roads to reach others in their pain. I have heard that term before, but it never sunk in quite like it did these past couple of days. One of the pastors in the training said something that I will never forget. As he talked about those wounded healers, he said this, “They will rise out of the ashes and God will propel them into ministry.” 

And God will, if we will just follow that call. I don’t mean that everyone who has suffered abuse or loss has to quit their job, go to seminary, and become an ordained pastor. That isn’t everyone’s call, and isn’t a requirement for ministry. Ministry is something we can all do, regardless of the job we do that pays our bills each month.

But for some people, that will be the call. And those are some amazing testimonies. I met one of the congregational care pastors at the church on Thursday evening after dinner. I could say I met him by happenstance, as this wasn’t a previously planned meeting, but literally occurred by a set of seemingly unrelated things happening in such a way that this introduction took place. But because I believe in the work of the Holy Spirit, I think it was a little more than that. 

His name is Daryl Burton, and he was wrongfully convicted for murder at age 22, and spent almost 25 years in prison before being exonerated when other evidence was discovered, proving his innocence. As he told us this story, I was so humbled, that this man who had been through so much and had so many reasons to be angry with society and angry with God, had chosen instead to serve God and to love people. 

As we were leaving, he asked the friend with me her name, as he had not remembered what she had said. She told him and I began to tell him my name again, and he said, oh I remember your name. My lawyer who got me released, her name was Cheryl. Your name is easy for me to remember. My friend told him that I too was a lawyer, and was also in seminary. 

As we started to walk away, I told him thank you for sharing his story. That he was such an inspiration because he could have allowed his life experiences to make him bitter but instead he had allowed God to use them to make something beautiful. 

As the words came out of my mouth, I had to choke back a sob. Because I realized that the same could be said of me and of every person I know who has suffered abuse, or loss, or harm, or grief, and has used those experiences as a drive to help others.

We could have allowed those life experiences to make us bitter.

But instead we have allowed God to use them to make something beautiful.

We are rising out of the ashes and following God’s call to minister to others.  

Through our experiences of hurt and pain, we will become profound caregivers.

Our most sacred calling in ministry just may be that of wounded healers. 

I had two of my family members tell me today at a family reunion how much they are touched by the things I publish on my blog, and as is usually my reaction when people tell me things like that, I was surprised and humbled.  

I pour out the words on the page that I do because they just won’t stay in my head and in my heart any longer. It amazes me that people take the time to read them and it amazes me even more that they receive benefit from them. Most of all, it amazes me that God uses them to touch people in ways beyond what I could ever imagine.

God uses the stories of my pain and hurt, and the pain and hurt of the children with whom I work, to touch and to heal people’s hearts. And at times to break them so that they can know what breaks God’s

To make something beautiful out of something that should be so bitter.

I do not believe that God cause bad things to happen to people so that good can come out of that harm. But I do believe that God brings beauty out of the pain all the same.

Through the wounded healers. 

And the rising from the ashes.