But if it is...

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; 

I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. 

Ezekiel 36:26

I could almost feel it as I lay there. That still rock-hard place in my heart that revealed my unbelief. Somehow it has been allowed to linger, and the unspoken questioning has caused it to grow until I could sense its presence even physically. The results of letting it manifest were becoming evident, and only predawn heart searching was able to fully reveal it.

"What if?"

The phantom question that must ring through every human's mind as they seriously consider a God they cannot see or touch. What if it is all just a made up book? What if God isn't real? What if there is no eternity? The barrage continued from unnamed whispers, from my fear of man, from my own apathy to not bother to battle them back. Prayers, even in the midst of my own doubt. A crying out, a lifeline to the God that has to be there lest this is all a charade.

But if it is real...

What if there is a God, as the evidence so clearly points to? What if there really are angels, seraphim and cherubim, hovering over a throne? What if the glory of God really does fill His courts? What if the saints are crying out "Holy, holy, holy" constantly in His presence because He is that holy? What if eternity is forever? And what if Trent is really there right now?

Then what?

As I repented, and asked God to remove the hardness, He was faithful to take it away. Took away the stone that was forming and fleshed out my heart once again. Calming the doubts and overwhelming me with His truth.

Which led me to more questions...

What if I am wasting my whole life investing here, only to see the reality of God's face on "that day"? There will be no doubting then. How then shall I live right now? What should I pursue? On that day, where do I want to be found? Seeking hard after Him, or building my kingdom here?

The truth that I know - know that I know - is that we will all see God's face, some sooner than others. We will all bow, some willingly, others not. My prayer for you is that this Savior Jesus would give you the desire to seek Him now, and cause you to desperately long for Him now, so that you will be ready on "that day."

Fenced In

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. Psalm 16:6a

It's 1:45 a.m. There is no reason why I shouldn't be pleasantly sleeping, snug and cuddled down under several blankets in the middle of a cold, dark night. But my eyes are wide open and my mind is racing. The digital numbers on the alarm clock show that it's way too early to start the day. Instead, I lay there tossing and turning for a while before I realize why I've been startled awake.

The panic again. To know, even during subconscious hours while I should be snoozing, that Trent is not here. Waking up to that reality over and over becomes almost unbearable. As long as I am moving I can run ahead of it, but laying in a bed in a dark house means that only my mind is active. Normally, lately, I try stuffing it, holding the information at arm's length, setting it aside so that I can function, pretending that I can go forth with life. But 1:45 a.m. is too early to get moving and keep the depths of grief at bay by busyness.

So I turn instead to where I should start rather than just end up. To God. "Here I am, Lord," I usually say when it's middle of the night conversations that He desires, hoping, in all truthfulness, to not have to hash out where exactly I am with my son's death in light of the Sovereign One.

I am immediately overwhelmed with prayers for the salvation of my children. A certain teen-age boy has been where I've been battling the hardest these days. My desire to see him grow into a young man who longs for God above all is my constant plea. The list goes on for those that I love until I realize the cover up that even prayer can be. Honesty is so hard, especially with God sometimes.

I begin to wonder where God went. I can tell myself all the theological answers, but they don't make up for my longing for Him. I desire that closeness again, and soon realize who has moved. I realize that I don't get down on my knees anymore, but instead have settled for mediocrity. I am scared to draw near. Scared to feel so much. Scared to be honest. Scared to listen. Scared to say that Trent's death is a reality and this is how life will forever be. Scared to wonder if all of my children are never saved how will I ever survive eternity. Scared to let God be God if my heart is only faking the peace. Knowing that there is no faking with God.

The words of Psalm 16 ring through my brain. How the Holy Spirit whispers so sweetly as I swirl down in my own emotional spiral never fails to surprise and comfort me. I look around and realize that as I have been trying to keep all the plates spinning and the answers in line I have forgotten to look up until I have almost been swept away in the dizzying attempt to do this myself.

"The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places." Psalm 16:6a

I have been fenced in. When I read the words earlier in the day they had stood out to me, and for the third time in twenty-four hours they made a big impact on this walk. Scripture says that God has set His lines in pleasant places. Trent's death is a boundary line drawn in pleasant places.

The pleasant place that God has boxed me in to is the place where He matters. A place where life and death matter. A place where my soul has to constantly be in the process of being made right with my Creator. A place where eternity is reality and this temporary life is a facade rather than the other way around. A place where Scripture is truth and a life line. A place where I have been tenderly placed for my soul's own good. A reminder that there is a "boundary placer" who has me just where He wants me: in pleasant places.

I forgot the next part of the verse until I ventured down the stairs in the dark and opened up to the marked page in my overflowing Bible: "Surely I have a delightful inheritance." Psalm 16:6b

Again, the reminder of eternity. A delightful inheritance filled with joy in the presence of God (Psalm 16:11). The God who has me fenced in.

Fuzzy Teeth Day

"What I mean, brothers, is that the time is short.

From now on those who [mourn should live as if they did not]."

Paraphrase from 1 Corinthians 1:29-30

It's after noon and I realize that I'm still sitting here at the computer, in my PJ's, with fuzzy teeth. A nasty realization on this chilly January day. I've been lost in a huge picture project, and honestly, it's been too cold to even want to think about stripping and putting on fresh clothes, let alone showering. The PJ's are comfy. If I did yoga I'd call them yoga pants, and along with the big sweatshirt they pass for being dressed. Until the mailman comes with a special delivery, that is, sending us all scurrying and being glad that the teenage boy is into the whole fashion thing lately. Fuzzy teeth: a sad realization that I am a forty-some year old housewife.

The apathy seems to be a side effect of the hibernation that sets in this time of year. After the holidays have subsided (and I realize that I've survived them yet again) we settle in to quiet projects. There has been more home school finished around here in the past couple of weeks than since school started in September. Biology, American History and Economics are all crossed off the list. Whew! With an anticipated move once the weather warms up, we are all in the zone: the get school done zone.

We just endured a week where the mercury barely rose above zero for four days straight. Brrr. Makes me think South sounds good. Missions in India. A tropical beach house. Or, perhaps, gracing the doors of the gym would be enough to feel warm again. Then I remind myself that I haven't even made it out of my pajamas today. Lazy bum.

I pray that God would continue to do His work with Trent's story while I can't muster up the energy to do anything. Emotionally, I am maxed out. Getting off my duff is asking a lot. Spiritually, I am dry. I am reminded of Isaiah 55 and God's offer to the thirsty. I come, but am only able to take a sip. Sometimes, a sip is all that one can handle.

As I battled this morning for some kind of victory this side of eternity, the comparison of our waiting for our physical home move and our moving to Heaven donned on me. At this time of dullness I realized that God is still doing His work (Romans 11:33). I forget that how I classify His work is not His way of classifying His work. I want flashing, glorious, loud, clear, blasting. God often does quiet. And heart searching. And soul changing. And fuzzy teeth sitting at a computer kind of work. Somehow the waiting is significant, even if it only looks like lazy in my do-something-Martha eyes.

The apostle Paul reminded me, as one who is mourning, to live as if I wasn't. God could not have been more direct in answering my pleas for Scriptural hope to go on today. Live as if I am not mourning. Why? "Because the time is short." (1 Corinthians 7:29-31)

Several souls in our community have entered eternity recently. There was a horrible accident involving the deaths of three children that touched the lives of our small towns. A patriarchal, elderly gentleman has also faced God after a long battle of physical ailments. The vet's secretary has passed from this life. And on, and on, and on. I browse the list of the "lives lived" section of the newspaper and realize how much more significance there is in that simple reference. One week of worldly glory having your name on the front page, a well worded obituary in the back, and then their memories are long forgotten by the vast majority. But their souls go on.

Sitting in bed, innocently reading a book, the thought came to me for the umpteenth time that Trent is in Heaven. As we have been forced to get used to him being gone from our daily routine, he has been experiencing Heaven. Everyday waking up to the glory of God. I wonder what that looks like, to wake up in Heaven...

As I tucked my kids into their beds the other night I was suddenly overcome with the paralyzing fact that Trent has no one to tuck him in. People have naively encouraged us that it must be so wonderful to know that Jesus is taking care of him now. And, yes, granted he would be almost sixteen, but I'm his mother. I took care of him his whole life. I want to tuck him in and kiss him good night.

I force the verses to reign as my body sinks down the wall and the tears slide down my cheeks. This is never something a parent will get used to. You continue to live, you have no choice, but as a Christian, your life becomes about learning what it is to die for the sake of Christ. Really die for Him. To trust Him, and to be real with yourself, asking again and again if you really do trust Him.


I don't recall that God ever said living for Him would be easy. He rather said that it would be nearly impossible, but that these present trials would not even be worth comparing to the glory to come. He said that He would walk with you through the trial, giving the needed grace to endure to the end, not that He would take away the trial. The longing for a perfect eternity in His presence grows deeper with every twist of the pain.

It was not for this day and age that Jesus endured, but for the coming Day that He will reign. The Day when sin will be fully done away with and all things will be put under His feet, including death. Victory will not be obtained fully here, but instead, through suffering, a Christian is given a foretaste, an hors d'oeuvre of the feast to come. There is so much more. "If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied," Paul said (1 Corinthians 15:19). I continue to force my brain to look beyond this day. To that day when the victory will be complete.

The time is short. I wait for God's energy to get me to the glorious part. I attempt to live in the now, doing the menial things that I feel I am called to right now rather than the "big" things I prefer to do. Sitting, staring at the blinking lights, sorting out the past and hoping for the future. I wait for the sun to shine again in our cold part of the country, knowing that with it will come the energy to do the work that is waiting.

The Monster

Grief is such of a monster.

There is no better way to describe it on this cold, snowy morning. The holiday season was spent in a blissful numb. Several times I would attempt to take a mental temperature and try to gauge just what it was that I was feeling, expecting the pain to overtake rather than the ability to enjoy the events. Numb is okay, as Alexis reminded me. None of us minds Novocain while sitting in the dentist's chair after all. Another Christmas spent without your firstborn son and a little numb is just fine.

But like the fuzzy lip, it doesn't last long. It's reminiscent to the feeling after the first anniversary. Being all pepped up to do it well, face it all, go through the motions at least. Then it hits ... hard. Coupled with the fact that I've been on a marathon picture sorting, collage making frenzy doesn't make it easier. In grief, I have found,  you do what you can do and you do what you think you have to do, even if it might seem irrational to everybody else. I have gotten it into my head that I have to have all of my pictures sorted and printed into book format before we hope to move in the Spring. I have gotten through two and a half years, nearly 1,000 collages. Which brings me to 2011. And we all know what happened in 2011.

As my mom said the other day, I'm living in three realms: the past, the present, and the future. When I first started the project I couldn't convince my brain again that Trent really wasn't here. As if he had just been hiding in the woods for the past three years, like in the pictures. I almost called him in for supper a couple of times.

Then there is the jolting present. Shutting off the computer and seeing the empty chair and bed. No Ken-doll locks, no giggle, no smacking kisses goodnight.

But then there is the future, the glorious future. To keep my eyes trained there often times becomes difficult. It's reality seems unreal, lately. As if God has asked too much. I force my heart to repeat the promises. Clinging to the hope in them. Battling for victory.

Victory.

The victory to overcome this deceitful heart of mine. Victory over unbelief. Victory over thinking that it would be better to have Trent here. Victory to live victoriously.

I felt strong enough to venture into the February 2011 pictures today. I figured I better do it while I thought I could. I realized again the depth of my weakness. A son in a coffin three years later is harder than it was that day. I see the people again, the ones who were here with us. I see the bewilderment, and even the lost-ness, on so many of their faces.

Then I look at my face in the pictures. I can almost see the grace of God being poured out. I wonder where that it is now. I wonder why God lets it get so hard. Not blasphemously wondering, just wondering at His good plans that includes our total weakness. I wonder if at the foot of Jesus' cross it was the same. Mary, looking at her son... fully trusting God, but wondering... how is this the good plan? I envision Jesus at Gethsemane, asking if there wasn't another way. Accepting that this was the wisest way.

Somehow glory is only seen through the impossible. Our faith is only proven through the impossible. To make it to the end, longing for God alone, only happens through the impossible.

The pictures that were taken the days, even months and years, before the accident were so worldly. To see my heart three years later, and what it desires now, is enough of a reason to praise God that His ways are higher than mine. His love baffles me. Why me? Why grant this suffering to me? The other option would have been to let me go on living only for here and now, indulging even more into my kingdom rather than His. There is no appropriate description for how deep my longing runs for Christ, to see His face, to bow at His feet, to know His glory.

Would I trade that desire for a lifetime of a son, when it would mean trading an eternity of being satisfied in God? No.

The perspective helps. This blip of a life is kept in check. I try to remember to look up from the grief once in a while. For as debilitating as it is, it drives me nearer to God.

Christmas Cards

I wish thee no greater good than that God break in upon thy careless heart,

and shake thee out of thy false peace, and make thee lie down at the feet of Christ. 

~Richard Baxter, The Saints Everlasting Rest

I seriously considered inscribing our Christmas cards with that line this year. But then I thought otherwise. My smiling, polite genetics got the best of me and I went for a safe, happy, NIV, non-eternal verse: "Rejoice in the Lord always! I will say it again - Rejoice!" (Philippians 4:4) I made it through the picture taking this Summer, made it through the collage process this Fall, and have even started a list with the intention of really sending them out before the blessed holiday is over.

And then the kids who were brave enough to venture out into the below zero weather to trek through the snow banks to the mailbox started bringing me Christmas cards. Safe, happy, NIV, non-eternal versed Christmas tidings with pretty covers and well wishes for a happy holiday. I handled it well to start with. I made it through the first few. And then I cried. Cried because everybody else gets to send out happy cards this year. Cards with all their children smiling in goofy poses. Cards about how big Johnny has grown, and how sister got a new car and brother is getting straight A's.

While I pondered my past year, and considered what I would write for a cheery holiday letter, I thought of the many mornings waking up to fight the battle just to get out of bed, fighting for God's glory to reign, fighting to say "thank you" for my son being in Heaven with the next words from my lips being a plea for the salvation of my children who are still here; the constant weight of their eternities laying on my heart like a rock.

Or watching my daughter cry her eyes out, focusing on grieving not as those without hope, and trying to come up with the perfect answer to the barrage of people who think her greatest achievement this past year should have been getting a driver's license rather than a deeper walk with the Lord, that time spent behind a wheel would have been better spent than time behind a Bible.

And, rather than my husband getting a promotion, how I've watched him work two jobs to support a family in this hard economic time, how I've watched him battle for victory to lead us well in the midst of his own pain, how I've watched his desire for God reign over his desire for the world, how I've watched his strong hold to Scripture win over his flesh.

I could write about letting it all go, giving up our kingdom of a farm and material possessions in attempted obedience to what we hope will be a life of being poured out for God's kingdom. But somehow it seemed wrong to report those growths, as if I would be destroying the façade of everybody else's joy at this time of year.

Then I remembered that God loves me. He really, really loves me. Loves me enough to "wish [me] no greater good than that [He] break in upon  [my] careless heart, and shake [me] out of [my] false peace, and make [me] lie down at the feet of Christ."

Then it struck me how sad I was. Not so much in being sad that Trent isn't here, though I miss him like crazy, but sad because in my own power I cannot change one single person, especially the ones that I love the most, to value God's glory and "break in upon [their] careless heart, and shake [them] out of [their] false peace, and make [them] lie down at the feet of Christ." Instead I watch so many professing believers walking around careless, with peace, not lying down at the feet of Christ. As Casting Crowns puts it (Spirit Wind), "Believers leading carnal lives... wonder what they're fighting for."

Along with all this, John Piper's book, The Pleasures of God, has my head swirling with his chapter on God's glory in bruising the Son on the Cross. He talks about God's delight in His own glory, and how the suffering of Jesus to take on the curse of sin in obedience to the Father was a measure of Jesus' love for God's glory. It's as if Jesus and God are battling to prove their love for each other, round and round, one-upping the other in proving it. Which all causes me to look fresh at my own suffering and how I view God in it.

If, like Jesus, the measure of my own suffering is meant to reveal God's glory and will result in God, and myself, delighting even more so in His glory, then I am right where He wants me. If suffering weighs out our truest affection, and if one of God's greatest delights is His glory, and if He allows His children to suffer to prove their greatest desire (all the while acknowledging that the ability that it would be His glory that rises to the top ultimately comes from Him), then what a joy it will be to see the measuring rod on that day that I enter God's presence and He says, "Well done good and faithful servant. You loved me this much and trusted me to portray my glory through you while you suffered this much." 

It is not the suffering that is rejoiced in, but what is accomplished by God via that suffering: the revealing of His glory that works out even our own salvation. To come to an end of ourselves just may be God's greatest mercy. To be sure, salvation only comes about by the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross, but God continues to prove it by increasing our longing for Him throughout our lives.

Which brings me back to the Christmas cards. And how much easier it would be to have five children posing, but how much greater is the work that is being done to only have four. So all that rambling to wish you this holiday season:

No greater good than that God break in upon thy careless heart,

and shake thee out of thy false peace, and make thee lie down at the feet of Christ.

The Pleasures of God

Don't read John Piper for an hour immediately before going to bed lest you wake up with thoughts like these swirling in your brain in all out attempt to connect the dots, before the coffee is even done brewing, and causing you to wonder ceaselessly, yet again, just who this God is that has chosen you to have a sneak peak at the unfathomable beauty of His glory to come:

* One of God's greatest pleasures is His delight in His good plans for His children.

* God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him.

* So, when I am satisfied in God and His good plans for me, I will be most satisfied in Him.

* To be most satisfied in God I must be most satisfied in God, not other things.

* When I pray and long for God to be glorified in me, it means that I must be most satisfied in God.

* For God to answer that prayer He must first make me delight in what He delights in, namely His glory.

* To prove that I delight in Him, as a Christian's desire would be, he removes what I do delight in to reveal what my greatest delight really is.

* The pain comes when it is discovered that it is not God, or His good plans, who is my greatest delight.

* God takes away what I desire more than Him for my own good, for my eternal good, to prepare me to delight in Him above all else for an eternity in His presence. He makes Himself my greatest desire so that I can say as Paul did in Philippians 3:8, "I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ."

* Nothing else will satisfy me like God will. Attempts to be satisfied elsewhere will graciously fail if God is going to be glorified in me.

* When I am fully satisfied in God, my delight in Him will overflow.

* God is like a mountain spring, never ending, never needing filling, freely offering my thirsty soul to fill on Him alone to be satisfied so that I will be able to run down the mountainside and share with others, knowing that there will always be enough grace and He will never run dry which means that I can be filled yet again.

* God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him.

~My thoughts from the book by John Piper, The Pleasures of God

Monday Morning

 

It's Monday again. How the days go by so fast, I don't know. This chilly morning brings with it extra kids snuggled double in a bed, cousins excited for doughnut day at Aunt Terri's house (click here for the recipe if you, too, find the desire to add an extra five pounds to your hips). The noise level is a bit higher in this old farmhouse, and the boy energy has been flowing since before eight o'clock. I make my face smile, squeeze extra tight with the hugs, and clench my coffee cup as I push the dog off the recliner while seeking a quiet corner to right my heart before my Savior.

The conviction of luke-warmness, with a dollop of bubbling anger, has boiled to the top lately. I now wake up without immediate thoughts of a son in Heaven. I wonder how the funeral predictions could actually be coming true that eventually you do go on and begin to survive without the ever-pressing force of grief. The normalcy of life without Trent is forcing its way in. Still not a day goes by without tears, or a fervent missing and crying out to God, but they are going by with less intensity.

As appealing as that sounds, I fear for the lack of impact it has on my soul. The expectation of eternity has waned, the realization of this mist of a life has dwindled and is being replaced by thoughts of paint colors and decorating schemes.

...anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me;

and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.

Matthew 10:37a-38

That verse may not challenge anybody else, as my dear {young teen age daughter with no children} daughter pointed out that she doesn't have any problems with it or loving Jesus the most. But this old mother was convicted to the core. I imagine standing before the throne of God on that day that my name is called to give an accounting for my life, especially for this time that I was granted the privilege of suffering in order for God to do "his will, and work in me what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever" (Hebrews 13:21).

I've realized, recently, how unwillingly I have taken up this cross to follow in the path of Jesus. How quickly I would take back my easy life, pre-child death, and live contently until the ripe old age of ninety-two without a care or thought of eternity. The outcome would be not seeking Jesus this way. Not counting the cost. Not being forced to look the powerful truth of Scripture square in the eye. Not having to acknowledge who I love the most, Jesus or fill in my own blank. Not knowing if I would be found worthy.

Not being tested means never realizing the worth or validity of your faith. Not being tested means not seeing God's power revealed. Not being tested means remaining stagnant. Not being tested means risking your eternity.

And what do you do with that?

I plead with God to right my motives and make my days count. Somehow pursuing eternity, investing here only as much as is absolutely necessary, and making sure my salvation. I ponder how to store up those treasures there, where moth and rust will not destroy, while treading this earth and needing it's resources to physically live. I pray and trust that my children will not be warped as we refuse to indulge them with the goods this life has to offer, but would instead constantly find their joy in and turn their attention to an unseen Judge and Savior.

As Rob read Scripture to the kids the other night, pondering in the book of Acts about Jesus ascending to Heaven to take his seat at the right hand of God, I sensed a precipice of sorts. I recalled, not so long ago, five young children squirming on the couch listening to their father proclaim the promises of life ever after. Now one child is living the reality of the words while the rest of us try to imagine it; try to live our lives expecting it.

I wonder how to lay out the importance of it to the rest of them. Failing on my own, and instead relying on prayer and God's grace. Longing to impress upon their young souls the foundation of loving God the most, assuring them that it is easier to start serving Him young rather than when the stubbornness of age has established it's rugged path in their daily lives.

Sigh.

The reality of how to live out these Biblical truths reveals itself in the smiling faces before me. Investment into those whom God brings into our lives. Being where He calls us, faithfully serving where He leads us. Counting the minor things as major.

The houseful of children get nervous when I finally rise from that old, worn out chair, two cups of coffee later, with an opera song rolling sweetly {annoyingly?} from my lips as I dance with the smiling blonde girl. It's time for doughnuts, kiddos. I'm sure the extra sugar will make this Monday all the sweeter.

The Widow's List

No widow may be put on the list of widows unless she ...

has been faithful to her husband,

and is well known for her good deeds,

such as bringing up children,

showing hospitality,

washing the feet of the Lord’s people,

helping those in trouble

and devoting herself to all kinds of good deeds.

1 Timothy 5:9

I have been playing a bit of Bible Bingo lately. With some busy schedules lately to goof up my lounging with a cup of coffee on the old recliner, plus having finished up my regular reading, I have just been quickly flipping through Scripture at random the past few mornings. I find myself mostly camped out near the end of the New Testament seeking out Paul's words and longing for some much needed encouragement and hope.

This verse in First Timothy has stuck with me, rolling through my brain and guiding my actions. After Trent's death the never ending question has been, "What do I do now?" Trying to balance what has to be done just to keep on living, with what has eternal purpose. The little bit of left over energy and emotion that remains after grief has ruled for the day needs to be channeled in the right direction lest the pity party claims it again. Battling to live truth as declared in Scripture sometimes goes no further than the brain, but there is a rumbling deep inside that refuses to be quieted lately and somehow the old energy is coming back to put some of it into motion. I still barely get a start before the tears come, threatening to paralyze me again. More days than not, though, lately I have been able to get past them quicker, or at least think I can get past them.

So then, what to do? What really matters? What does God say matters?

Richard Baxter, in The Saints' Everlasting Rest (Free book download here), admonishes the believer to set their minds more on Heaven and eternity, to believe as if it is reality, and therefor to live it out in our daily actions.

"O, that we would mind our inheritance and value it but half as it doth deserve! There is nothing else [greater than Heaven] that is worth setting our hearts on... I would not advise thee to make experiments (living our lives other than as if Heaven and God were reality) at such dear rates, as all those do that seek after happiness below, lest, when the substance is lost, thou find too late that thou didst catch but at a shadow; lest thou be like those men that will needs search out the philosopher's stone, though none could effect it that went before them; and so buy their experience with the loss of their own estates and time which they might have had at a cheaper rate, if they would have taken up with the experience of their predecessors. So I would wish thee not to disquiet thyself looking for that which is not on earth, lest thou learn by they experience with the loss of thy soul, which thou mightiest have learned by easier terms, even by the warnings of God in his Word, and loss of thousands of souls before thee.

 

Indeed, so far as duty and necessity requires it, we must be content to mind the things below; but who is he that contains himself within the compass of those limits?

 

 And yet if we bound our cares and thoughts as diligently as ever we can, we shall find the least to be bitter and burdensome, even as the least wasp hath a sting, and the smallest serpent hath his poison. . . . The like may I say of our earthly cares; it is their property to be hard and troublesome, and so they will be when they are the least. . . . We, the citizens and inhabitants of heaven, are bound by solemn and frequent covenants, not to have our hearts enticed or entangled with any foreign honours or delights, but only with those of our own country. If thy thoughts should, like the laborious bee, go over the world from flower to flower, from creature to creature, they would bring thee no honey or sweetness home, save what they gathered from their relations to eternity. . . ."

Along with those thoughts I look at Paul's list again:

  . . . faithful to her husband and well known for her good deeds,

such as bringing up children,

showing hospitality,

washing the feet of the Lord’s people,

helping those in trouble

and devoting herself to all kinds of good deeds.

 



And then I look at my life from the perspective of eternity. I look at all the possessions that I am hoarding and striving for here and see how their value pales in light of what matters to God. I look around at my junque, and consider that knowing Christ is of greater value than the treasures of this world. I see all the material stuff that I will have to give account for one day, and then seek out ways to make them glorify God. I remind myself to invest in what truly matters: souls.

There is the overlooked simplicity of being a faithful wife; faithful with my mouth and words, faithful with my thoughts and prayers, faithful to build my husband up to be who God is making him to be.

Good deeds, often times the simple things like being the one to get up and let the dog in. Will that be glorifying in the presence of the King, to battle the selfishness in my own heart that would rather refuse to rise in order to give my family comfort?

Bringing up godly children, showing them a broken vessel who is desperate for God. Living out absolute dependence on a Savior who said He loves and redeems the vilest offender. Pointing them to what matters: not this temporary world, or indulging in what it offers, but where our souls are with our Creator.

Hospitality, even if it means an impromptu meal of hot dogs and baked beans served in the old pot on mismatched plates while sitting around the scratched dining room table talking about what really matters.

Washing the feet of the Lord's people. My heart has a long way to go on this one. What humbleness that is still so far out of my reach to stoop that far. To forgive and love like Christ did. To draw that near to other sinners who have offended my shallow feelings and not edified my ego.

To help those in trouble. So often I don't see beyond my own front door to even see them. So often I am consumed here at home, where I should be for this time, that I don't even know that there is trouble. Could I not stretch myself a bit more to see it, though? To put myself where I can see it? A hug is so simple, an email, a card, and a heartfelt prayer means so much to those in trouble and is such a simple offering.

Devoting myself to all kinds of good deeds, good God deeds through His power. Balancing what is my strength and what is God's strength, God's callings or my ideas, has been rumbling around my thoughts lately. How many things do I futilely do on my own instead of listening for God's clear voice? How many plates do I attempt to spin until God knocks them all off so I will finally look to Him alone and live out what He is asking and what glorifies Him? What in my life will matter for eternity? What will be on my widow's list?

Temporary Insanity

The pendulum seems to swing full force in my life. Either I am huddled up in the fetal position under the covers, or the throttle is set at full bore and we all go along for the ride. I prefer full bore. I prefer having too many things to do for the Kingdom with a chaos of people surrounding me while doing it.

Lately that hasn't been the case. It's been quiet. And lonely. Grief seems to have a power of its own to close you in to a painful shell of yourself. After a while you get exhausted by trying to figure out what to do with the outside world of well meaning people who don't know what to do with you, either. There are the handful of brave ones who don't skirt the subject of your dead son, but most are skittish.

It's a strange place, wondering if you should venture in to deeper waters or stay on the shallows talking about the weather. Mostly it's the weather. Which brings the barrage of "why don't they say anything, why don't I say anything, fine I'll hole myself up in my house and never come out again."

Whoosh goes the pendulum.

Holed up in my house on purpose is where I've found myself lately. And that's okay. The kids are getting cabin fever already in October, but I've cocooned myself into a little quilting world and would be happy to not emerge until the snow melts next Spring. Lucky for them Aunt Traci came and whisked them away to the outside world for a day of swimming earlier in the week. I stayed home. And told myself I wouldn't cry. But it didn't work very well. If I could just let it all come out maybe I'd get on with life. But I'm so tired of crying and I can't seem to conjure up much joy lately.

"Sometimes it's just hard," were Traci's wise words. "There doesn't have to be an excuse. It's just hard." And lately it's just been hard.

Hard to go to friend's houses where other Aunts mistakenly use Trent's name. I don't mind. I mind the tiptoeing around us more. But then it's hard when somebody does talk about Trent. Hard to fathom that kind of love. Hard to believe that's what it is supposed to really be like; that other people carry this burden with me and all these whispers of the enemy aren't true. Hard to hear that people don't know how to help their children grieve. And even wonder at the concept that they should. Hard to hear that a young man was bawling into his pillow the night his friend died and that his dad sat on the couch next to him and watched a movie. Hard to hear someone be amazed at how strong you were only to know how truly weak you are.

Our weakness portrays our dependency for God. I keep trying to remind myself of that. Keep trying to force what is reality to overrule what I only thought was reality. It's been a losing game lately. Until God answered my never ending prayer to remind me again of the reality of eternity. Remind me to stay awake. Remind me that this is not a game we're all playing.

That reminder was through another child's death. Through another way that God used Trent's story for His glory. Another battle fought through folded hands and tears poured out over a girl and her family that we never knew. Prayers of a husband so tender that I am both convicted and ashamed at my own brutal heart. Tears wept because their day probably started out naively just like our day had over two years ago, and now they are in the midst of preparing for a funeral. Tears because we know what that feels like and know what is ahead of them. Know the ache that never leaves even when it feels like everyone else has.

Tears because we long for them to not walk the walk alone but to fight, brawl, battle and conquer over all to know the goodness of God in every detail of the rest of their lives until they, too, meet God face to face. Tears because these precious ones have gone before us and know what we only long to know. Tears because we know these are the easy days for them. Tears because we are so humbled by God saving our son by His Son and allowing us to share in their sorrow even if they never know it. God knows it. God hears. God cares.

So I dig deeper into the material cupboard. I look for more to do. I busy my restless hands as I wait for eternity to begin. Because it's either that or crawl back under the covers.

Trent's Story

On Friday February 18, 2011, God did the unthinkable in our life: He chose to take our 12-year-old son, Trent, home to heaven in a skiing accident.
It is only considered “the unthinkable” because our plans are not God’s plans, and our ways are not God’s ways.

Before Trent was born we had entrusted the Lord with his life and had asked Him, above all else, to bring salvation to our son. Our greatest desire was that he would be used in a mighty way for God’s glory, and that God would let him dwell in heaven for eternity.

God answered our prayers that Friday in a mightier way than we could have imagined, and we have been rejoicing in His good works and His mercies ever since.

Trent was a boy who truly lived. From the very beginning he did what he loved and enjoyed to the full the gifts and skills that God had given him. In his short life he saw much of this world, traveling as far as India, the Bahamas, Bass Pro Shop in Missouri where he explored his favorite destination on his golden birthday, as well as many family camping trips. God instilled a love of hunting and fishing in Trent, and a joy of the great outdoors. Since he was little all he wanted was to turn 12 to be able to go deer hunting. During his 12th year God allowed him to shoot two deer. Trent loved to pick on his siblings Alexis, Cole, Grace, and Micah, to protect his mother, to snuggle with his father, and to be with his friends, especially his best friends: Thomas and Samuel. He tried everything that interested him, even carving his own long bow and succeeding in taxidermy. In his short years he lived life to the fullest.

But as we are all destined to, Trent also died. On Friday, February 18, 2011, we said goodbye to our son as he left for a skiing trip with his friends, not knowing that he would never be coming back home. God says that He knows the number of our days, that He has created each one, and that He will do what He pleases (Psalm 115:3; Job14:5).

God’s standards to enter His kingdom are high: He expects perfection. Trent was not perfect, not even close. God graciously provided His perfect Son, Jesus Christ, as the atonement for our sinfulness and requires that we simply believe and acknowledge Him for it.

For most of his life Trent struggled with his own sinfulness before God. He knew that he was not right before God, and nothing he could do would ever make up for the sins he had committed to make him worthy to enter heaven. In the spring of 2010, God graciously chose to bring salvation to Trent through repentance and the saving grace of Christ Jesus. Trent’s life was transformed and we enjoyed the young fruit in his life as we watched God work.

It was with great peace and much rejoicing, then, that we as his family have sent him off before us and accepted God’s perfect plan for Trent’s life. Our longing is that God would be glorified in what He has done to wake up many to the realization that we are not guaranteed any number of years in this world (Psalm 39:4-5).

On Friday morning we had our son; on Friday afternoon he was gone.

What we have asked so many people since the accident is: “What if it had been you? Where would you be right now?”

We diligently raised Trent up to know his sinful state and taught him what the Word of God says because we know the implications of denying Christ now, and God was gracious to answer our prayers and to save him. Scripture says that the gospel will go forth with much sorrow and heartache. Please let Trent’s short life be a wake-up call to you. We are rejoicing in the sorrow because we know where our son is and that we will one day be with him again for eternity because of our own salvation.

God's mercies are new every day and His peace does surpass all understanding (Lamentations 3:22-23; Philippians 4:6-7). God has been so gracious to us by blessing us first of all with His peace in His perfect plan. The family and friends who have surrounded us and have lifted us up in prayer are amazing and another testimony to God’s goodness.

It is with great rejoicing that we release our son, Trent, age 12, to our Heavenly Father. Dance before your King, my son.

The Romans road to salvation:
Romans 3:23; 3:10-18; 6:23; 5:8; 10:9; 10:13; 5:1; 8:1; 8:38-39

Making the Connection

There is something powerful about sharing God's word. Think I'm kidding? Go share the gospel. Hold out that glorious promise of Jesus to forgive sinners, offer hope to the hopeless, hand out Scriptural truth like it was candy at a Fourth of July parade. See what happens when you live like heaven is a reality and this life really is a mist. I guarantee you two things: God will uphold you as He refines you through His designated fire and Satan will use every wily trick to defeat you. The enemy knows our weaknesses better than we do. He'll attempt to fool us with the same schemes over and over again. And we'll fall for it nearly every time.

I should see the connection already, but things come slower these days. I have begun to realize that my impatient ways are not God's ways and I try to wait for His timing and leading to act. I'm not sure how to justify that I know when it is His timing, but it all works out to happen exactly when He wants for so many unknown reasons that we may never know.

And then, when the time comes to reach out with the truth, so do the attacks. The defeat. The mornings of crying over socks and preferring bauling in bed rather than rejoicing for a son in heaven. Just as I get to the verge of considering minutely that God could have done things differently (dare I whisper better?) the Holy Spirit reigns my thoughts back to the words of Scripture. Somehow I force my feet to the floor lest I wallow all day in my pity party. I cry before I get to the door. Cry as I walk past the boy's bedroom. Cry as I start the coffee pot, all the while sinking deeper into despair with every step. Such a low that hasn't been felt for quite a while. It slams me: hurt, hurt, hurt. I turn in to it rather than clinging to the words of truth. I start to believe it rather than believing the promises of a Sovereign God.

I read about Richard Baxter (author of The Saint's Everlasting Rest) the other day that he believed like a Calvinist but lived like an Armenian. Meaning, he lived believing that God was sovereign and all powerful, but lived like his salvation (and the salvation of those around him) depended solely on his efforts. One of my weak spots is doubt. What if God isn't real? What if Heaven isn't real? What if eternity isn't real?

But, as I consider my son and the truths of the Bible, I turn it around and ask: What if it is? What if God is sovereign but somehow my salvation and the salvation of those He brings into my life does depend on my efforts? What if that accounting of my life really happens? What if the ones who have been given more (more truth, more access to Scripture, more opening of the eyes, more awakening of the soul, more passion, more knowledge) will be held to a higher standard? What if my ignoring and my apathy really have serious consequences in somebody else's eternity?

What if...

So I bolster through the morning. I finally quit my griping. I finally bend my knees and my heart in prayer, focus my eyes on God's word, and commit my life for the thousandth time to His ways and His plans. Then I dig out a card and ask for words to write to a mother whose twelve year old son died in an accident one short month ago. I try not to let my own tears fall on the page as I force myself to realize why I have this ministry in the first place. Why I am privileged to know what she is going through. Why my heart breaks so deeply for a woman I've never met. Why it matters so much if she starts out the hard process of grieving her son with praising her Savior. I package up two books along with prayers and search for an address, reading the details of her son's death again through my internet search. How morbid it feels to look up children's obituaries and hunt down their living parent's addresses.

Then I click on my emails and find that somebody in Indonesia is requesting a book. Indonesia. I dig into the box for another and tell Trent, "We're going to Indonesia. God's taking you to Indonesia." My prayers for my son's life to be used in a mighty way are going to Indonesia. Alexis gets worried over her mother talking to her dead brother, she may be the one who finally ends up committing me to that insane asylum. It's okay, Lex, I know he can't answer me.

But ... Indonesia.

Can you fathom the ways of God? Would you have ever thought we could bring the gospel to Indonesia? So I tuck in an extra couple of copies. As the dust of the rejoicing over God's work starts to settle another request for books pops up from a sweet Grandmother who wonders about printing her own story. The humbling begins and I catch a glimpse of eternity when the glory to come is going to be incomparable to these temporary trials. I begin to realize that God does know what He's doing and His plans are more glorious than I could ever imagine and that I really don't want to face Him knowing that I fussed about every little thing that He did.

And then the light bulb goes off: this always happens when God uses the story of Trent's life for his glory. Defeat, whining, doubt then a tiny revealing of His work to encourage me of little faith. So I wrap up the books, say another prayer, and vow to myself that I'll see it coming a bit quicker next time rather than going through the same pathetic motions of fussing and doubting God's good plans.

The Saint's Everlasting Rest

It's weird having your picture taken. It's weird to look at pictures of yourself. It's weird to post pictures of yourself on your own blog. As a camera fanatic, I am much more comfortable with the gadget in my hands rather than pointed at my face. But, like I keep telling the children, you'll need some photos for my funeral one day. I'm doing my best to ensure that there are shots without the double chin or sagging arms. Use this one, kiddos. Somebody blow it up and put it right on top of my casket. Let it be what you remember of me. May it be what I strive to live like before you, rather than the sulky mother that I've been.

Don't think I'm going suicidal, I'm not. I've just been reading a book by a man who has been in heaven for over three hundred years. (Three hundred years. Just let that concept sink in for three seconds.) He shares about his longing for that eternal rest, his desire to know God perfectly, spirit to spirit. He thought he was going to die so figured he should start thinking about such things. Turns out he didn't pass as quickly as he figured and ended up writing more than just his own funeral sermon but a four volume essay on heaven and the saints' desire to be there. Every turn of the page brings tears. Then conviction. Then that deep sighing that has been present for so long. That unsatisfied longing for God.

He writes:

"Can any soul that hath made God his portion, and chosen him for his only happiness and rest, find rest in so vast a distance from him?"

The universal longing of a Christian's soul to be in God's presence struck me last night at the supper table. Poor Rob, he gets all of my out-of-the-blue, unsorted, confusing blurps, "God revealed the same thing to Richard Baxter as He has been revealing to us: the longing for God's presence when He will dwell with His people." A foreign concept to the world, one only fools would believe in and bank on. If that's the case, then call me the biggest fool of all because I'm waiting for the good stuff, folks. I'm setting my sights on Heaven. I'm waiting impatiently for it and this book isn't helping.

Richard Baxter, The Saints' Everlasting Rest. It's good stuff.

Chosen

But you are a chosen people,

a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God,

that you may declare the praises of Him

who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.

1 Peter 2:9

 

 

Life has been a whirlwind of cross country meets, orthodontic appointments, replying to Craigslist adds and home school lessons. The impending threat of cold weather on the horizon has us living in limbo between hoping that we might actually be able to get the house moved and enjoy a lake view before snow flies, or being content to settle in for another long winter at the farm. That wouldn't be so bad either as this old farmhouse is well insulated and has a wood stove to boot. Compared to a the new/old farmhouse we're looking at, with probably next to no insulation, we might appreciate being here come January.

 

But our hearts are already at the new place, stolen by the peace that envelops us every time we visit. Alexis reminds me that it probably has more to do with not having a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes rather than the place itself fulfilling us. Yes, my wise young lady, probably so. All we have to do at the new property is to lounge on the discarded lawn chairs and gaze at the lake view.

 

We've never had to wake up there to the realization that has become our life for the past two and a half years. The battle has not had to be conquered yet on that soil to call God's ways right and perfect, to call death a lie, to force truth to reign over emotions. The enemy has not prowled there, seeking to destroy with the thousand-and-one reminders of a son whom we long to be where he used to be. The woods hold no memories that cause a flood of tears, no overgrown trails that are too painful to walk. There is no dining room table to recall where salvation took place, no empty desk full of school books that were intended to be finished, no empty wall where a near-teen-age boy used to lie in his bed waiting for a kiss good night.

 

I allow the thoughts to twist with their torturous pain, ripping through my heart. Wallowing in them. Knowing the hurt on an intimate level. Knowing there is nowhere to escape it. It consumes as it threatens to choke out any hope.

 

"But you are a chosen people," Peter wrote so long ago. "A royal priesthood, belonging to God, to declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light. Once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy." (From 1 Peter 2:9-10)

 

My mind wrestles with the chosen part. Going back to the beginning of First Peter, the apostle says that we are chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father. A God whose ways are higher than mine, higher than the heavens are from the earth.

 

Chosen, then, to suffer. Chosen to endure grief. Chosen to extol the glory of God through a trial I cannot endure on my own. Chosen to be refined by the fire. Chosen to sort where my affections really lie. Chosen to have my eyes pointed heavenward. Chosen to lose all in this life for the hope of the next. Chosen to be poured out. Chosen to reveal absolute weakness for Christ's incomparable strength to shine through. Chosen to know a taste of God's agony, to know what it is to give up a son. Chosen by a God who is faithful and true.

 

Chosen, so that above all, I would be granted the power to be able to declare the praises of Him who called me out of darkness into His wonderful light.

Daring to Draw Near

 



Again on our home school schedule, right at the top, is the daily requirement of Bible and prayer. It has been there as long as there has been a school schedule in our unscheduled lives. But this year I have chosen to torture the children and really require that they pray. Not just crossing it off the list, or quick praying before we eat, or passing the prayer basket, but to dive deep into conversations with the Almighty. To make it worse, they have to do it sitting next to their brothers and sisters. And, harder yet, most of them aren't saved.

The pull came out of a personal desire, a need for an accounting in my own prayer life which has leaned more towards the Jonah side: fleeing from God rather than drawing near. Numbness is easier than the constant tears, so I've chosen that route rather than bowing before my Creator; traded wooden floors and humbleness for a comfortable recliner and cup of coffee. Mornings are hard enough. Conquering the flesh, getting to gratitude for a son in Heaven before my feet hit the old wooden floor has been something that I've too easily passed over. And, because of that choice, find myself heading straight towards apathy. Holding God at arm's length rather than daring to draw near.

Personal prayer with God alone is powerful, but as Scripture says, where two or more are gathered Christ is there as well (Matthew 18:20). Corporate prayer breaks down walls that we easily hide behind when our eyes are wide open, and especially when we live together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with no escape from each other than the occasional cross country practice. Our battle weapons get dull when we don't refuel with honesty and by drawing deep from God's well. My greatest desire is to see God glorified through my children, and that will only happen when my children are truly satisfied in Him, so I have set off on a determined effort to train them up and give them the daily habit of authenticity before their maker.

Have you been there? Real, raw, spiritually naked before God?

Lately I find myself not even needing to tell God my heart, not faking the hurt, because He knows. The searcher of hearts knows. My sister reminds me that I am right where He wants me. Right now I don't like where He wants me and He knows it, so there is no point of denying it. Not in anger pointed at God, but honest, lay it all out on the alter, sort it out, hash it out for the ten-thousandth time until joy in God's plans becomes my honest joy. But the majority of that starts with prayer. And prayer is hard work.

After the giggles around the kitchen island, God lead the kids and I to begin our prayer session with acknowledgement of who He is. As children who have been raised in church events their whole lives my kiddos know how to start and end prayer. "Thank you God for this, and heal so-and-so, amen." How pathetic. They know they're not saved and God knows that they're not saved. We think we fool Him. We think those piddly prayers honor Him. But He says that He hears the prayers of the righteous, that honesty is what He desires, that only those with faith please Him (James 5:16; 1 Chronicles 29:17; Acts 17:11).

So we started at the beginning: Who is God?

We all thought we knew. But when our answers are only based on what Scripture says about who God is, it starts to put things into perspective. Eyes closed, five voices getting solemner by the moment, claiming the claims of Jesus Himself. Rather than starting prayer with "thank you" we started with acknowledgement. How hard that proved to be, to break our own rote prayer style that has been acceptable to our lazy selves for so long.

That prayer session revealed much- our doubts as well as our own self righteousness. Pride boiled near the top, but sweet voices longing for eternity were mingled in as well. Prayers spanning between an eight year old boy to a forty year old tired mother revealed where our hearts really are.

Day two brought the discovery of a book on the shelf of our home library by John White called Daring to Draw Near. It is full of insights on prayers that are recorded in Scripture and how God is revealed through them. Not a how-to-pray book, but a peek-at-God-through-prayer book. What an amazing concept: to turn prayer into being about God rather than about us!

If my children can get past the torture concept, past the giggles, and God chooses to reveal Himself to them as they dare to draw near His throne I will give them all A's. And God, Lord willing, will have created a few more powerful warriors for His kingdom.

When Hope Survives

 

CreateSpace has been my friend this summer. They have this wonderful feature where you can get a proof copy of your un-finished manuscript printed for about $5.00, cheaper and easier to handle than printing nearly two hundred pages on my archaic printer. I have been plugging along on my devotional, When Hope Survives, grappling with concepts like this revelational thought that popped into my most recent pity party:

We look here for temporary substitutes to replace God

which ultimately only bring discontent, depression and despair.
 

The pitiful things that I replace Jesus with condemn me in themselves.
 

Real joy is found only in God.

The key to joy, then, is to look to Him alone.

Not exactly what I've been doing lately. Hence the reason why writing the theological parts for the book might be a bit of a struggle right about now. The cloud of discontent, worry and grief have overruled lately.

The recent triggers: a little brown leather ball and a different seventh grade boy in a white and purple jersey. Another home school year with only four names on the schedule again. Those baying dogs in their boxes in the back of the old beat-up hunting trucks that continue to pass by on our quiet road. The next fifty years of my life to look forward to with everyday beginning with the thought that my son is not here to enjoy them with and battling to sing the praises of God for that. Fighting my flesh to call this good, seeking God's ways rather than mine, reminding myself to rejoice in the blessing of suffering.

Some days I honestly can rejoice. I am able to keep my focus on eternity, realizing the gift of having my eyes opened to it. Looking around watching so many people living carnal lives, only desiring the next recreational excursion or new toy rather than looking forward to Christ's return when we will marvel at Him, when His glory will be revealed, when our souls will be fulfilled in His presence, when the accounting of our lives will be reckoned and the grace of God will be shown for how it carried us. The gift of suffering becomes clearer, then, as I realize that it brings with it the desire to focus on eternity.

The book is still a long way off from being worthy of publishing, even self publishing. I pray for the words to write, but fear writing them at the same time. To attempt to permanently describe God, a black and white representation of the Almighty... it's a scary thing. I tread upon the responsibility with great respect and patience.

But then at the same time I feel the need for it to be finished. Now. I see the desperate need for a reminder of hope. I see grieving mothers, friends, and people I've never met (besides myself) needing to be redirected back to the promises of Scripture, back to Jesus, back to the gospel, back to the source of joy. Not just for those grieving a child, but those walking any road of suffering. Trials consume a person. Blinders need to be removed so that hope can shine forth. The truths of God penetrate the darkness.

So I continue to pick up the proof copy, continue to edit, edit, edit and wait for the perfect words to flow when it's God's time.

A Bit of Advice

There is probably a good reason behind the old adage about those who are grieving, the ever popular response of, "I don't know what to say, so I won't say anything." Even as a grieving mother I stand guilty as charged. Too often I have kept my mouth shut, too, because there really aren't any right words to say. But to all the Christians out there, let me offer my advice on what truly not to say:

*Don't turn the grief back to personal emotions, instead turn it to Christ.

*Don't wallow with said mother in the now, but rather, change her focus towards the glory to come.

*Don't discredit the feelings, but point out that they are feelings; point out the truth of Scripture, the truth of eternity, the truth of Jesus.

*Feel free to give that poor, unsuspecting, grieving mother in the midst of her pity party a good, swift kick in the behinder. I have a sister who is very good at this, and very unafraid to do it. Wham! "Get over it! Open your eyes! Heaven is a far better place to be. Jesus saved your son, He even showed you that He saved your son. Get out there and fight for more souls."

*Then let that poor blithering mother melt into a pile on the floor right before your very eyes until her tears stop. And next week, do it all over again.

***********************

 

To all those who have been brave enough to point me back to Christ in this trial,

my unending thanks

Without Fault

 

To Him who is able to keep you from falling

and to present you before his glorious presence

without fault and with great joy.

Jude :24

I've been sicker than a dog all week. Another splendid side of grief I am finding. Even two and a half years later my body's resolve to fight anything other than the constant barrage of spiritual and emotional attacks is low. Illness strikes with a vengeance and sends me to bed, or the doctors office, more often than ever, revealing yet again another result of the curse of so long ago. Being in bed, feverish and hacking away, leaves the household to go awry. I made an attempt to rule from under the three quilts I was huddled under, but it just wasn't the same.

At the low points seems to be when God moves. The weakness that the apostle Paul so often talked about is where glory shines the brightest through our lives. I hate that weakness. I hate the face-to-face honesty that is found in it. Total dependence on something outside of myself. The tears flow too freely as well as the first ammunition of protection: anger. Stupid this and stupid that, until I only have God left to accuse. Stuffing is the wadding over the cannon ball that eventually ends up exploding, so I try to balance it all. But then there are the tears; too many tears. The headache kind of tears, the smearing all over your face and sopping wet t-shirt kind of tears. It's unbelievable where they all come from and what simple things they come over.

I said goodnight to Rob last night. He looked at me strange. "What did you say?" he asked. Just goodnight. "I thought you said 'Goodnight Trent.'" The look, after twenty-four years, after two years, the look before the tears. I remind myself that eternity is going to be a long time. I pray for all of my children, for all those God has given me to love, that they would be there. That they are those who have been called and loved by God, that they have this testimony in their hearts.

Sin weighs heavy in these weak moments as well. It blares its resounding siren in my soul, reminding me of the depth of depravity that I am capable of. Revealing the expanse between sinful me and a perfect, holy, glorious God. An expanse so wide that one slip may be all it takes to turn that love into eternal separation. How I wander so easily from the promises I am not sure. Fear maybe, or too many voices echoing over the years. A healthy respect of a glorious God who isn't kidding, perhaps.

"To Him who is able...."

The words penetrate the pain. "To Him who is able." My eyes have been looking the wrong way again. This is not a performance test. This is not about me. None of it. It is about revealing God. Revealing Him who is able, Jesus Christ.

In this weakness God's word has gone forth. I have noted since the beginning of this grief journey that when the word of God, especially the gospel, is being poured out is when the attacks seem to hit the hardest. I should not be blindsided by the connection anymore, but I still am. Trent's story, or rather, God's story of Trent's life, has been shared umpteen times these past couple of weeks in various ways. As a mother, as a vessel of God, as a spokesman for His gospel, I press on to share it with as many as possible. God makes it too easy sometimes. As I wallow in my pity party in bed, He is doing glorious things through words that He ordained to be wrote many months ago.

He is able. Yes, Jesus is able.

The next part of the verse, "able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy" covers every false whisper of the enemy. I just finished reading in 1 John 2:1b-2a, "But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense- Jesus Christ the righteous one. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins." The combination throws a powerful punch. Combined with John's encouragement that belief in Jesus Christ promises the reality of eternal life brought more tears. Always tears these days.

Tears over the washing of my own sins that I have no excuse for before a holy God, but more so, tears to realize that Trent has been presented before the glorious presence of God, escorted by Jesus Himself. Brought before Him without fault and with great joy.

A few months after Trent's accident the thought terrorized me that when we die we immediately face judgment, not the refining fire of judgment of our works that Paul describes in First Corinthians 3:12-15, but the salvation judgment of Hebrews 9:27 where we stand before God face to face to give account as to what we did with the testimony of His Son, Jesus Christ. I long for a glimpse into this eternal realm where sins are as if they never were, where justice comes through scarred hands, where the Savior died for His very creation. To understand glory. To look upon it, unblemished. Ushered into the very courtroom of God with great joy. The thought of my son having walked that walk overwhelms me.

The pressure seems to continue that it's time to get over with grieving. But I never want to get over longing to be where my son is, longing for heaven, longing to be where there is no fault, no sin, no fear. The privilege of being given this suffering is to be able to share the hope of the Savior who made the promises. I battle to hold on to it above anything else in this world that so easily consumes. I strive to keep my eyes heavenward. To live seeing eternity as a reality, not a distant possibility.

The illness, the pain, the weakness, the intense grief of a mother's breaking heart are the necessary requirements for revealing the facade of what surrounds us. They all point toward what really matters: eternity. Eternity and where we will be found before this glorious God when we arrive there.

To the only God our Savior be glory,

majesty, power and authority,

through Jesus Christ our Lord,

before all ages now and forevermore!

Amen

Jude :25