Holding up the hands of those who are tired

I read earlier this week on Twitter of the death by suicide of a young pastor, who had himself been a leading charge about speaking out on the importance of talking about mental illness, depression, and suicide, and destigmatizing the shame that comes with that for many people.

Sometimes we speak most passionately about the things that hit closest to home for us because of our own experiences, or those of the ones we love.

I was shocked to see some very harsh comments from a person, directed at the person posting about the pastor’s death, with their opinion that the writer should not be saying the pastor was in Heaven when he was not, because he had committed suicide. Many people responded to the harshness of that response, and the person commented again, saying that the knowledge that a person wouldn’t go to Heaven if they committed suicide might keep someone else who was considering the act from doing so.

I had to read that comment twice because my first response was, surely one person cannot be that clueless. Turns out he is, I guess, because it read the same the second time I read it.

My first thought was I hope nobody you love ever struggles with depression or suicidal ideations because they are surely not going to get the support that they need from you. My second thought was I really hope somebody you love struggles with depression or suicidal ideations so that you will catch a clue that you have NO idea what you are talking about, and the damage that you are capable of doing by saying the things that you say.

I’ve been saddened each time since that I have seen someone post an article about the death of the young pastor. Then on Twitter again a few days later, I saw reference to attacks by another person on the dead pastor, this time by a fellow pastor. I just saw red at that point for so many reasons. First of all, to my knowledge, neither of these know-it-alls has been to Heaven and taken an inventory of who all was there and how they died. Neither has had a face to face conversation with God about this very issue. And certainly neither one of them has EVER had a deep, honest, and vulnerable discourse with a person who has struggled with persistent thoughts of suicide, because if they had, they would understand without question that it is exhausting and heartbreaking and that when that person has fought with everything they have to resist those thoughts.

Somehow I doubt that the people who say that a person who commits suicide will not go to Heaven would also say that someone who chooses to discontinue cancer treatment or someone who declines extraordinary lifesaving measures will not. And yet, because the disease we are talking about is one of a psychological rather than an obvious physiological one, people treat it as if it’s not the same.

A number of years ago there was a mother in my county who, suffering severe postpartum depression, cut off the arms of her baby. As the investigation unfolded, it became clear that prior to that event, she had struggled with post-partum depression to the point of psychosis, with both her pastor and her husband discouraging her from any type psychological or pharmaceutical intervention. They both felt that if she just prayed more or had more faith, she would be healed. I’m sure that gives her great comfort on the backside of the action that took her child’s life and with which she will have to wake up remembering each day for the rest of her life.

The stigma and shame about mental illness and depression and suicide must stop. In society. In our schools. In our homes. And most of all, in our churches. Our churches should be the places where more than anyplace else, we support each other and hold each other up. Where we talk about hard things, and we do hard things, and we support each other through the good times and the bad. Not a place where we point fingers and place blame and cast shame.

In the book of Exodus there is a story of a battle that Israel was engaged in. In the midst of the battle, Moses took Aaron and Hur, his brother and a close companion, to the top of a hill. As long as Moses held up his hand with the shepherd's rod of God in his hand, Israel would win the battle. But when he lowered his hand, Israel would begin to lose. Soon Moses' hands grew tired. And so Aaron and Hur took a stone and put it under Moses so he could sit down. And then Aaron and Hur held up the hands of Moses, one on each side of him, so that his hands remained steady despite his weariness, and Israel ultimately prevailed.

As Christ followers, it isn't our job to judge when someone grows too tired to hold up their hands anymore. It's our job to come alongside, place a stone under them so they can sit down, and hold up their hands, and keep them steady, until they are able to hold them again on their own. Because sometimes the battles in life are just to big too fight on our own. Sometimes we need someone else to hold up our hands.

The rest of the story

I’ve loved this photo from the first time I saw it. The facial expressions. The carefree nature of the subject. The absolute joy that just radiates from the entire scene. I told the story of how this photo came about in a recent Facebook post. The story of how Clayton was trying to run under a friend who was swinging and didn’t get out of the way fast enough and got knocked down.  That’s the story of why Clayton is on the ground and why his boyfriend Kam is laughing so hard he can’t stand up, and why Danny is smiling and why Will is stumbling away the way that he is. But the meaning behind this photo is about so much more than just that story, and I have known since Saturday night when I saw it that I needed to write about it, but just hadn’t taken the time to pull the words from my head and put them on the written page. It wasn’t until the meeting of our Open Hearts group last night that I realized I didn’t know all the meaning of that photo.

When Clayton first told us, several months ago, that he was interested in a boy he knew from the youth theatre group he was involved in, my reaction was both happy for him that he had found someone in whom he was interested, and also apprehensive because the boy was African American. Not because I care, but because I know there are some who will.  I had come to accept the fear that went with the idea of how people might react to Clayton being involved in a same sex relationship. When I realized that his first relationship might also be an interracial one, I wanted to laugh out loud. The kid has never done anything the easy way. I don’t know why I thought his dating life would be any different. I told him that the more conservative members of his family who might be able to come to terms with his being in a same sex relationship just might not be able to handle the interracial one. And then I did what I should have done, which was warn him of the risks and the potential heartbreak of this difficult road he was about to walk, and then wish him well on the journey.

Kam’s mother wasn’t as immediately supportive. She had difficulty with accepting that her son was gay, and so Clayton and Kam decided to just be friends and forget any potential romance, and hope that in time she would come around. It was months later, when they again were cast in a show together and began to spend more time together again that they realized their interest in one another had never gone away and had in fact only grown stronger. While it initially seemed Kam’s mother was more open, they realized in time that nothing had changed. I learned so much about these two boys and their maturity and their grace in this situation. I could not have been more proud if I had tried about how both of them handled the challenges that her disapproval presented. After a very difficult period, she finally agreed to let them date, and they began doing so with her approval. Clayton had long hoped that Kam would be able to go to his homecoming dance with him, but it wasn’t until that actual night that he, or I, fully believed it was going to happen.

The day of the dance, Kam had to work, and did not get off in time to be able to join Clayton and the rest of his group of friends for photos. He was able to join them at the restaurant during their dinner together before the dance, and the plan was for me to take the two of them back to the park to take photos together and then to take them to the dance to meet the rest of the group already there. When I mentioned, to two of the other moms who were driving, the apprehension I had about them walking into the dance by themselves, their reaction was immediate. They would simply bring all the kids back to the park with Clayton and Kam for the photos so they could all walk in together.

And so as we went back to the park for the second set of photos of the evening, all the kids came. And as they were waiting for Clayton and Kam to finish with their photos, some of the boys began to swing. And after the photos were taken, Clayton and Kam joined in the fun, because as big as all these boys are, at heart they are still just little kids sometimes. And when the swinging was done, and when the dust from Clayton’s fall was dusted off, all the kids loaded back into the car, and we headed to the dance where all 16 of these big kids, grades 9 through 12, walked together into the dance, supporting their friend and his boyfriend, walking into a small town high school in small town Texas.

And it didn’t matter to any one of those kids that Clayton and Kam were gay, or that Clayton was white and that Kam was black. What mattered to them was that Clayton was their friend, and Kam was awfully nice and an awful lot of fun, and that they all got to spend the evening together dancing, after an unexpected but joyful trip back to the park.

This was the story that I had to tell on Saturday night about this photo.

And then last night I learned, as Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.”

Having a gay child presents its own sets of fears and worries of hatred and violence directed against him because of who he dates and may someday marry. Having a gay child in an interracial relationship in conservative small town Texas? Well that’s just about enough to make a mama bear more than a little scared. And truthfully, I was feeling a bit of that about the homecoming dance. We are so fortunate to have some amazing allies serving as teachers and counselors within our high school, and so I asked one of them, a member of our Open Hearts Ministry, if he was going to be a chaperone at the dance. Initially his response was “not if I can help it.” But when I told him that Clayton was going to be taking Kam to the dance, he changed his response without hesitation to “I wouldn’t miss it.” And the level of comfort that knowledge gave to my mama heart was substantial. And then on Thursday, he told me that something unavoidable had come up that was causing he and his wife to have to go out of town for the weekend, and so he wasn’t going to be able to be there as planned. My stomach dropped. I hadn’t realized how apprehensive I actually was and how much I was depending on his safe presence there until that moment. He asked if it was okay for him to talk to someone else about being a stand-in for him as a safe adult for Clayton and Kam, and I told him yes, and asked him to let me or Clayton know who it was. He sent me a message a little later in the day telling me the teacher he had found, a particular favorite of the kids, because his genuine love and care for them is so obvious.

I got messages from the teacher in our Open Hearts ministry both before the dance asking me to relay his and his wife’s support for Clayton and Kam, and during the dance, asking me to let them know after the dance that everything went okay. The only stories I heard from the dance were of fun, and glitter, and dancing so much that the sweat was profuse. These kids were a sweaty mess when they showed up for after-dance pancakes, y’all. I asked Clayton if there had been any issues, and he told me no. I sent a photo of the happy, tired and sweaty couple to the teacher, understanding that his relief was as great as mine.

Then at our Open Hearts meeting last night, that teacher told me a part of the story I did not previously know. He had spoken with the teacher who had covered for him at the dance to ask if there had been any issues and what the teacher told him was this: He had been keeping a watch on Clayton all night and at one point, when he went to check on him, he couldn’t find him anywhere. So he asked one of the senior girls in Clayton’s group of friends where Clayton was. Her response was why do you want to know? He told her he was just checking to make sure that he was okay, and she assured him he didn’t need to worry that they, his group, had him.

And indeed they did. Not just at that moment, but at every point during that day, and honestly, at every point in Clayton’s coming out journey up to this point.  Because, you see, that girl and one of the boys in this photo, they were the first people that Clayton came out to when he was beginning to question his sexuality and who he was. They were the first people he came out to when he realized without doubt, a year and a half later, that he was gay. He trusted them with this part of himself before even trusting his family. And at every step along the way, they have supported him and loved him and had his back. They had him, as this girl told the teacher, this past Saturday night. But the truth is, they’ve had him for the past 4 years.

As a parent, you hope that your children find good friends who will lead them to make good decisions in the treacherous growing up years. You hope that they find good friends who will love them and support them and be a listening ear for them when they need it. You hope that they find good friends who will make the often difficult years of middle school and high school just a bit easier to bear.

Sometimes you are blessed beyond all measure that the friends they make will become family to them in a way beyond what you could ever imagine or hope. Friends who give them the confidence that they are loved and valued for who they are. Friends who give them the confidence that allows them to have the smiles you see in the photo here. That allows them to set aside the worries of hate or violence or negativity, and lets them enjoy a time of being a teenager spending time with people they care about, doing things that they love. Friends who are an integral part of their faith journey. Because these kids I’m talking about? They are all a part of his church youth group. A group of kids who understand that when Jesus said love your neighbor as yourself, he meant love everybody. Regardless of your gender identity, sexual orientation, ethnic background or skin color. A group of kids who I have no doubt are going to change this world in a powerful and important way. And I am beyond blessed to know each and every one of them. I know without doubt that they have made a positive impact on Clayton that will last a lifetime.

But the rest of the story? They’ve had the same impact on me.

Wearing my scars as if they were wings

It’s summer time in Texas which means it’s hot. Like stupid hot. And when it’s stupid hot, somedays I decide to wear dresses, because they are cooler than slacks and a jacket.

Today was one of those days.

But when I went to put on a dress this morning, I hesitated because I remembered that my right knee is still skinned up from a wipeout last week on an electric scooter in Austin. And so I almost put on pants instead.

But I didn’t.

I went with the dress.

Because it reminds me of past injuries. Both the physical wound on my knee, and the emotional and mental scars I carry on my heart which kept me from wearing dresses to work for many, many years.

It’s only been in the past 15 months that I have had the courage to reclaim the power I gave away which kept me from wearing those dresses. That I had the courage to reclaim feminine dress not as a sign of weakness but as a sign of strength. That I had the confidence and the self-worth to recognize that the only person I need to dress for and care who has an opinion about what I choose to wear is myself.

So yes, wearing a dress reminds me of those scars.

But it reminds me that those scars represent a wound that has healed and that doesn’t cause me pain anymore. It reminds me of the strength I carry within myself that no person has the power to take from me.

The wound on my knee, that will become a scar in time, that’s a different story. It is a badge of courage. It is a sign of freedom. It is a claim to the carefree part of my spirit that has been buried for most of my life and is only now, at age 51, starting to come to the surface from time to time.

Because of childhood trauma and the death of my father at such a young age, I never really experienced what it was to be a carefree child. I was always very serious, very focused, and very determined to achieve goals, please others, and generally keep as much in the shadows as I was able.

Those personality traits don’t lead to the carefree play often enjoyed by children. I’ve often wished that I could go back to a time when I was carefree, without realizing until very recently that I actually never was.

When I realized that, I decided I could grieve over what never was, or I could start from now to reclaim what I missed out on.

The freedom of being silly.

The gift of being carefree.

The act of doing something for fun, for no other purpose than just having fun.

And so, with that attitude in mind, when I was in Austin this past week with Clayton and some dear friends, and on the way to dinner we came across electric scooters for rent in downtown, and the idea came up of renting them for the rest of the trip to the restaurant, I said yes. Prior to the week before, at any time that opportunity would have arisen, I would have said no. I’m too clumsy. It’s too dangerous. I’m too scared. It’s just not a good idea. But on this recent night, with the realization that I could either start to intentionally learn to be frivolous, or I could spend my time regretting never knowing that feeling, I decided to go for it.

About halfway through the ride, someone stopped in front me and, not being familiar with the brakes, I wiped out, landing partly on top of them, partly on top of the scooter, and partly on the ground. I twisted my ankle, skinned up my knee, and bruised my upper thigh. I wasn’t sure for the rest of the evening how easily I was going to be able to walk the next day. While my walking was just fine, I experienced the effects of soreness for several days after.

And each time I felt the tenderness in my ankle or my thigh, or saw the skinned places on my knee, I smiled.

Because they reminded me of the time that I was brave enough to be free.

That time that I conquered my demons.

That time that I wore my scars as if they were wings.

Remembering what’s important

Back in June, the criminal case accompanying one of my CPS cases was heard before a jury. The jury convicted the mother of a first degree injury to a child charge after hearing evidence of the starvation death of a two month old baby. 

The testimony included that of a pediatrician, an experienced and seasoned medical professional, who choked up when describing the painful manner in which this baby boy died, gasping for his last breaths, so depleted of nutrition that his poor little body barely had the energy to struggle to inflate his lungs. 

The mental image was horrific.

The verdict came on the same day that sentencing began on the criminal part of another one of my cases involving the starvation death of a 12 year old. It was an incredibly rough week.

The sentencing for the baby’s starvation death was today. It’s been on my calendar for the past two months, but within the last week, I had another court hearing get scheduled which meant I was only able to watch a little of the sentencing before I had to leave to go to a different court to take care of my own case.

By the time I finished with the case I was responsible for, my fellow ADA was wrapping up her closing argument and the only thing I was able to see was the judge pronouncing sentence of 60 years in prison.

I wasn’t happy because I had to miss the court hearing I really wanted to watch.

I have had three really bad CPS cases over the past year and half that their accompanying criminal cases have wrapped up in the past 2 months. This one, with the starvation death of a 2 month old, the one earlier this summer involving the starvation death of a 12 year old, and one last week involving a two month old with two traumatic brain injuries and multiple broken ribs inflicted by her father while under the influence of methamphetamines.

I have seen parents sentenced to 50 and 45 years for the death of the 12 year old, 30 years for the injuries to the 2 month old, and I really wanted to see the criminal part of this last case wrap up, in part so that I could formulate my own strategy moving forward, but mostly so that I could try to get some emotional closure on what has been a difficult few months for me.

But I missed it because I had to deal with a new case.

Another new case.

Because they just keep coming.

The new case that I had to deal with today isn’t one that has the same gut wrenching heartbreak of the starved or broken children. But as I walked out of the courtroom and realized how much time had been spent on it, when I was really wanting to be somewhere else, and realized how frustrated I was that I had to deal with it, causing me to miss the case down the hallway, I realized something even more important. 

This new case deserves my attention just as much as the other one. 

Because while there won’t be any accompanying criminal case, or any media coverage, the children in this new case are experiencing trauma and loss and grief all their own.

And they deserve my full attention.

And so do the ones coming up next. And all the ones after that. They all deserve all I have to give. Not because I need some sense of relief or closure or justice. 

But because they do. 

Through that gift

This screenshot showed up on my Timehop today, from a book I began reading on this day one year ago.

I took a screenshot at the time because the truth is, I have often wondered, why me, God? Why did you give me these amazing children but give each of them a road to walk that would be so hard? Aaron with his medical issues and Clayton with his sexuality. Couldn’t they just be typical, God?

I took the screenshot at the time to remind myself that God gave Clayton to me because I’m exactly who Clayton needed as a mother.

What I have learned in the year since is that Clayton is exactly who I needed as a son.

What I have learned in the year since is that Clayton being gay isn’t a burden, but a gift.

Through that gift, I have learned the true meaning of love and acceptance. I have learned the true value of not only affirming a person’s identity, but celebrating it.

Through that gift, I have come to know so many amazing, giving, loving and supportive people who I might never have otherwise had the chance to encounter.

Through that gift, I have learned the many ways that the church can love people outside the normal constraints of the church building. I have also learned the many ways that the church has wounded and harmed, and have been given a heart and a call to heal those wounds, repair that harm, and work to find a better way forward.

Through that gift, I have gained the courage and the boldness to speak up and to speak out even when what I have to say may make people uncomfortable.

Through that gift, I have learned to encourage my son to be exactly who God made him to be without shame or embarrassment or apology.

Through that gift, I have learned to encourage myself to be the same.  

I am grateful that God chose to give me a loved one who is gay. It has caused my mind to broaden, my heart to open, and my understanding of God’s love to deepen.

And that is a gift beyond all measure.

Sunscreen and chapstick

There have been a lot of hard parts of parenting.


That difficult first year filled with sleepless nights and days filled with crying babies, messy houses, limited showers, and way too many bodily fluids.


The terrible twos which lead to the tumultuous threes and the fearful fours.


Elementary school years with the frustrations of learning to read, do basic math, and navigate the mean kids at recess.


Middle school. Really, do I need to say more there?


And the high school years filled with teenage angst, betrayal of friends, love interests that didn’t work out, the stress of increasingly difficult classes, college applications, learning to drive, and learning to let them make decisions, and mistakes, on their own.


And yet as hard as those years were in so many ways, this part of parenting, the part where you have to let go? In many ways it’s been the hardest parenting season of all.  


And at the same time, it’s been the most rewarding.


As we count down the days to Aaron going back to Rice for his second year, all of my feelings are more pronounced. I am so excited to see what this next year brings. The maturity that he will gain, the things that he will learn, the friends that he will make, the experiences that he will have.


He had an amazing freshman year and in so many ways he surprised us at how much he grew and developed socially. He learned an entirely new infusion protocol, and when he had difficulty with self-administration, he had the courage to ask his friends for help. He had some difficult times that we didn’t find out about until late in the process, but as sad as I am that he navigated that difficulty alone, I was so proud to see that he took all the steps I would have advised him to have taken. He surrounded himself with the support that he needed, and the people that he needed, and the advice he needed, and he made the right decisions in the right way for the right reasons.


It’s a little humbling when you realize that your child can do hard things without you. But isn’t that exactly what we raise them for and precisely what we want for them?


As we prepare to send Aaron back to school this second year, the grief is lessened and the tears fewer than this time last year. While I still worry, I know that he will be okay. He’s proven that over this past year. While I will miss him, I know that his life is in Houston now, and I’m grateful for the time we’ve had together these past months.


As I prepare to send Aaron off to school again, I can’t help but think of my friends who are navigating this road for the first time.


I have spent the last few months watching the emotions of many of them as they get ready to send their babies off to school for the first time and my heart is full for them, because I know so many of the things that are in their hearts and on their minds.


And so my words of advice are these: it’s going to be okay mom and dad. You’re going to be sad and that’s okay. Sometimes your babies are going to be sad and they are going to be lonely and that’s okay. They are going to get stressed, and get sick, and not take care of themselves the way they should and that’s okay. They aren’t going to eat right and they aren’t going to sleep enough and that’s okay. They are going to cry at times and you are too and that’s okay.


This is part of their hero’s journey. And as much as you want to run behind them with that sunscreen and that lip balm, you can’t. And you shouldn’t. Sometimes their skin has to burn and their lips have to get chapped so that they learn to protect themselves the way they should. And that’s okay.

They are going to be okay.


And so are you.


Whether it feels that way right now or not.


You have to release them.


It’s disrespectful not to.

What I need to know

We finished today a study in our small group class over World Religions. It’s a study that was supposed to take 6 weeks, but as usually happens in our small group, took about 3 times as long. This isn’t the first time that a study has taken longer than anticipated.

It’s a side effect of the make up of our group. Because we are a group of people with a bit more wisdom (i.e., mostly middle aged). Because we are a group of people who have lots of insight and wisdom to impart (i.e., opinionated and vocal about it). We call ourselves Real People because, well, we are. Very real people. It was also the least profane and most appropriate of the names we came up with. Because we are a group of people who love Jesus and love each other, but are highly irreverent most of the time. I love connecting with these people and growing in faith alongside them.

To wrap up the study, in which we have to this point studied Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, and Judaism, the last world religion we spoke about today was that of Christianity.

In the discussion, the question was posed “Other than being born into a Christian family, why am I a Christian?” I really had to think about that answer for a little while to come up with the answer I wanted. 

Why am I a Christian?

I mean the immediate and easy answer is “Because Jesus.” Duh. 

But why? Why Jesus? What is it about Jesus that makes me want to be a Christian? After thinking a bit, I answered and said that what makes me want to be a Christian is that Jesus, in the way that he lived and in the way that he loved, was everything that I want to be as a person.

To love the unloveable. To empower the powerless. To see the value in those deemed without value by society or religion.

And as I thought of that concept, and as we talked about how so many people are turned off from Christianity because of Christians and the way that they act, and whether if Jesus came back today he would be satisfied with or disappointed in the Christian church, I realized that the power we have as Christians can certainly be to do good. But even more so, the power that we have as Christians can be to do harm to people that may never be repaired.

We can use our Christian faith as an open hand or as a closed fist.

We can use our Christian faith to pull people in or push them away.

We can use our Christian faith to heal or to cause further harm.

As for me, my Christian faith tells me I should love. 

Everyone.  

Every. One. 

Not those who have a certain gender identity, sexual orientation, ethnicity, skin color, or religion. 

Every. One. 

Not because I deem them worthy. But because God does.

Every. One.  

Each. One.

As God loves them.

As God loves me. 

In all my shortcomings and in all my failings. With my tendency to cuss too much, be too impatient, and want too much from others.

As someone said in class today, the more I know, the more I realize how little I know. He was very right, as I am discovering, the longer I walk this faith journey. But along with that, what I have learned is this…

The more I know, the more I realize that it’s okay that there is much I don’t know. 

The more I know, the more I realize how little I actually need to know.

What I actually need to know is quite simple.

Love God.

Love one another.

Everyone.

Every. One.

Each. One.

With Open Hand.

With Open Heart.

With Open Mind.

Love the unloveable. Empower the powerless. See the value in those deemed without value by society or religion.

Love as Jesus would love.

That’s really all that I need to know.

Infusion of Grace

A couple of weeks ago, I went for dinner and drinks with a dear friend to a restaurant known for their craft cocktails. I had this yummy drink with peach infused rum, and because I am who I am, I immediately starting figuring out how I could recreate the drink at home. First step in that process was, of course, making peach infused rum.

So, on the way home from our cruise this past Saturday, we stopped at a peach farm and I bought a bag of fresh peaches. I got on Pinterest, to read about the best way to infuse rum, and on Sunday, started the process for doing so.

Peeling the peaches, I couldn’t help but remember the time that I was in college when my aunt Valda and I, two of the least domestic women in the world at the time, decided to can peaches growing on my Granny’s peach trees. The problems were many. The peaches were way overripe, and we had no clue what we were doing, so both of us ended up with peach juice literally dripping off our elbows and all over our clothes. But being the driven and goal oriented women we were, you can also read that as stubborn, we persisted. Finally we finished the job, and it is still literally one of my favorite memories of time spent with Valda.

But anyway, I digress. Shocking, I know.

Anyway, I followed the process to begin the infusion process, using 10 of the peaches I had purchased. These peaches weren’t cheap. So in the last couple of days, being the frugal, cough cough cheapskate, person that I am, I’ve been thinking about how I could utilize the used peaches once the infusion process is finished, rather than just throwing them away. I’ve considered using them to make peach simple syrup. I’ve thought of freezing them and using them to make peach daiquiris. A friend suggested I make drunken peach cobbler, which led to a consideration of making peach rum bread pudding.

The question is how the infusion of the rum will change the character of the peaches and the subsequent flavor they bring to the finished product, and whether if I use them in something other than daiquiris, whether the cooking process will cook any infused alcohol out of the peaches. It seems like that might be an important thing to know, depending on who I might feed the food to…

In the process of considering how the peaches might best be used, taking into consideration how their character has been changed by sitting in rum for 5 days, I started thinking about how the effect of the rum on these farm fresh peaches isn’t all that different than the effect of trauma is on people.

With the peach, what you start out with is something that is fresh, its natural state unaffected by any outside influences, spices, pesticides. When you add the rum, you change the character of the peach, and figuring out how to use what’s left after the infusion requires you to consider several things. In considering using the peaches in baking, you have to consider whether you can cook the alcohol out enough so that the peaches in their altered state are appropriate for making something you’re going to give to children. You have to consider whether the rum will have changed the flavor of the peach to the extent it will affect your recipe in a negative way, or whether it might add a deeper layer of flavor than what you would have with fresh peaches. In considering using them in simple syrup for cocktails or in peach daiquiris, you have to consider whether or not the added alcohol is going to affect the end taste of your beverage. So many things to think about that you wouldn’t have to consider if the peach had gotten to the end of its life without anyone doing things to it that caused such a material change in the character of what it started out as.

That’s kind of what trauma does to people.

Trauma comes in many forms. It can come from physical abuse or neglect, sexual or emotional abuse, bullying, death of a loved one, serious illness, or loss. Few of us get to the end of our lives without having been infused at some point with some sort of trauma that, like with the rum and the peaches, alters who we end up becoming. It doesn’t make us less useful, it just makes us different. It doesn’t mean we have to be thrown away, it just means we have to consider how the effect of that infusion of trauma might need to be considered in our interactions with other people. Our inclusion as an ingredient in a recipe, if you will. It may be that the effect of our trauma means we might not be best fitted in a situation that we might’ve fit without that infusion. It may be that the infusion of trauma makes us stronger in ways than we would’ve been, and that at times that added strength might be enough to overwhelm an already delicately balanced recipe. But that infusion also may add a layer of complexity and richness to our lives and to our character that is an unexpected and added bonus to the people that we come into contact with, and in the cake of life we choose to be a part of.

Spending time figuring out the best use for the rum infused peaches has been a fun diversion in what has been a stressful work week. But as fun as that has been, it doesn’t come close to the adventure of figuring out how the person I am now, with all my discoloration, or changed texture, or deepened flavors, can be used for the glory of the God who made me. The God who has loved me every step of the way, through the process of those changes. The God who, even when I thought I was too damaged and altered to do the work set out for me, never once considered the fact that I might should just be thrown away. The God who uses all things to make me into who I was meant to be to do the work that God would have me do.

And that, my friends, is the greatest recipe adventure of all.

Promises in the sky

Today was my first day back to work after a week off for doctor visits and vacation. It’s rare for me to take an entire week off where I truly disconnect from work, from email, from checking in, from staffing cases. This was one of those rare times where I for the most part did that, at least for a few days. But the truth is, the escape from work was interrupted on Tuesday afternoon, right before our ship left the port, by news of a decision made on the difficult trial I was involved in earlier this month. The ruling that was made wasn’t one that I had hoped for, or one that I agreed with, and is one that I worried a great deal about, and for quite a while after finding out the result, it was all I could do to hold it together instead of falling apart in front of my kids.

As hard as I tried to set down my worry and my angst, it kept coming back to me the rest of that afternoon and evening.

And then the following morning, as I stepped out on the balcony of our room with my coffee, I saw the brightest of the rainbows pictured here. And I soon realized it was not one rainbow but two. As I looked at the rainbows before me, I remembered God’s promise to Noah. 

And I remembered the moments spent at the beginning of one of the difficult days of the trial. Moments holding hands with my caseworker, tears streaming from both our eyes, my voice choked with tears as I prayed to God the following words: “Gracious God, you know our hearts, and you know the needs of these children. And God, we know that as much as we love these children, you love them that much more. And that as you hold us today, you hold them as well.” 

And seeing the rainbows before me, one for each of these precious babies, I knew without doubt that while I did not understand the decisions made for these children, that God had a plan for their lives bigger than any that any of us who care for them could ever imagine. And knowing that could allow me to let go of my fear and my worry and my questions of what I could have done better or differently.

I know that regardless of the outcome of the trial, God holds these precious children and God holds each of us. Each and every day. Even on those days where we think we are all alone. And some days, when we really need it, God sends a reminder of that promise. Made to us again, each and every morning.