Category Archives: Uncategorized

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The Church as a Force for Justice and Change

I do not recall attending church as a child, though I think we may have gone occasionally on holidays. My first memories of church are from 5th grade when a neighbor invited me to the Wednesday night program at her Baptist church that was within walking distance of our neighborhood. I began attending on Sunday mornings and was baptized in that church at age 13. I went on local mission weeks and to church camps with the youth group and eventually branched out to attend Fellowship of Christian Athletes (FCA) programs in my first two years of high school. 

Church was not a part of my later high school and early college life until I began dating the man I would eventually marry. Not having grown up in church, my faith roots were shallow and my knowledge was limited. When he invited me to his church, I went eagerly, not realizing that the Mormon church was not simply another denomination but an entire entity (cult) unto itself. The experience of immersing myself, joining, and eventually insisting on my own excommunication from the Latter Day Saint (LDS) church (it is the only way out), left me burned by religion and subsequently agnostic.

Only love for my unborn first child and a desire for her to have the spiritual roots I had lacked propelled me back into a church five years later, and I went determined to be physically present but spiritually distant. Two churches and an incredible pastor later, the mustard seed of faith planted in my teenage years sprouted. As a military spouse, I experienced multiple churches in the years that followed, and each nurtured my faith in its own imperfect ways. Everywhere I lived, the church was central to my life. The church has been the primary place where I worshipped, studied, fellowshipped, learned, led, served, and grew for going on thirty years.

I believe in the church. I love the church. I am who I am because of the church. The church has always been flawed and broken and at times has fallen grossly on the wrong side of history. Unfortunately, this is one of those times for the church in America (the only context I have experienced and can speak personally about). The people in our nation and those influenced by it are in desperate need of justice, but the church as an institution is too sick to be a force for change. It, in fact, is both overtly and covertly complicit in numerous acts of injustice in our nation and abroad. We are not without hope, however, for the church as Christ presented and empowered her can and should speak into the injustice we are experiencing and inflicting.

I do not claim to be a church historian or an expert on the church as an organization. I am confident that there are individual churches and perhaps even entire denominations that are relatively healthy. I am currently a part of one such church community. However, as an entity, the organized church in America has become consumed by the empire that houses it, which renders it ineffective as a force that opposes the injustices inflicted by that empire. I could reflect upon numerous examples related to poverty, race, gender, sexual orientation, immigration, and more, but as a culmination of a summer spent studying the Israel-Palestine conflict, I will limit my reflections to the church’s impotence as a force of justice and change in the genocide and ethnic cleansing that is ongoing in Gaza.

As I have shared previously, I had extremely limited knowledge of the Israel-Palestine conflict prior to taking a course at St. Stephen’s University this past summer. The message I had received from the evangelical non-denominational church I left last fall after seven years of membership and full participation was simple: Israel was the good guy that any true Christian would defend at all costs. Palestinians were terrorists and indefensible. Any alternative opinion was heresy.

Interestingly, none of this messaging came to me via direct instruction or even explicit teaching from the pulpit. It was just understood and soaked into me through prayer requests, prophetic words shared on Sunday mornings, and the corporate response to news related to Israel and Palestine, especially the October 2023 attacks. I have always been an eager student—taking classes, attending Bible studies, and reading books recommended by pastors and others I respect—but in no church that I have attended over the past thirty years was I ever encouraged to read or understand anything related to Israel-Palestine. I credit Dr. Munther Isaac’s December 2023 sermon “Christ in the Rubble” with sparking my curiosity enough to eventually lead me to the SSU course.

Week after week this summer, we read and discussed colonialism, Zionism, land, empire, eschatology, theology, antisemitism, and Kairos. Week after week, we asked ourselves, “What can we do?” Week after week we confessed to one another our churches’ silence and our own paralysis within our church bodies. Why?

America is no longer just a nation. She is an empire. She is also a civil religion. Much of the American church has believed a false narrative that America was founded as a Christian nation, that she is chosen. It has traded worship of Jesus for worship of country and a mandate that Jesus never issued. It has allowed flawed theology to seep into its teaching and has prostituted itself to political movements under the guise of numerous “moral imperatives.” Meanwhile, it has become its own consumer-driven, results-oriented, bureaucratic entity that is so cumbersome even at the local, individual level that congregations or pastors who may glimpse or even know in their hearts that they are off-course are powerless to effect change. Much of the church has crawled in bed with empire, most especially the current U.S. administration, and is slapping Christian labels onto policies, actions, and statements that reflect nothing of Christ, tarnishing His name in horrific ways.

With each topic we studied this summer, the picture of the American church’s direct endorsement of the ethnic cleansing and genocide in Palestine grew clearer. It is not just a matter of complicity. It is worse than that. The American church and the empire housing it have directed, funded, enabled, defended, and covered up atrocious crimes against humanity. And for the reasons just described, it is not equipped to be a force of justice or change.

Thankfully, the American church is not the church. The church—the ekklesia—was built by Jesus and is indestructible (Matthew 16:18). It consists of members of the body of Christ that Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 12. It is not bound by geographical location, by biological traits, by cultural norms, by denominational guidelines, by political affiliation, or any other man-made label or construct. Christ is its head and He has uniquely gifted, called, and equipped each member of the body “for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ” (Ephesians 4:12-13). Paul implored the church in Ephesus that the members of the body of Christ “must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming. But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ” (Ephesians 4:14-15). The same applies to the church today. If the members of the body of Christ are to grow up into Him, we need to reflect His teachings such as those in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) and the Sermon on the Plain (Luke 6) and His numerous parables about who is our neighbor and how often we forgive and how we are to treat the foreigner, the outcast, and the least of these. 

The organized church in America is too entangled in empire and its own bureaucracy to function as a force of change in any of the injustices that plague our nation or the world, especially related to Israel-Palestine. The hope is in the individual members of the body of Christ whose head is Jesus, who lived and died and was raised from the dead and seated at God’s “right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come” (Ephesians 1:20-21). God has “put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all” (Ephesians 1:22-23). 

As individual members of the body of Christ, we must centralize His teachings and apply them to the injustices of our day. We must use our voices, our hands, our feet, and our minds to speak and act and teach and write and utilize our gifts in His service. In doing so, we will be a force of change in our communities, our schools, our workplaces, our congregations, our denominations, and our government. But we must not be motivated by a desire to convert or overpower the empire or to wed it to the church. As my pastor, Brian Zahnd, has said, “Empire gonna empire. But don’t confuse it with the kingdom of Jesus.”[1] We are not citizens of the empire but “citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom [we] also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place of God” (Ephesians 2:19-22). His Kingdom has come and is yet coming. Until its fulfillment, we are His body in our nation and our world, including in homeless encampments, at the border, in prisons, across the aisle, in our neighborhood, and—imperatively—in the rubble of the tragedy that is occurring in Palestine and in Israel.

[1] Facebook post (June 22, 2025)

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Ballot Cast

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This weekend I cast my ballot
for democracy,
for life,
for equality,
for character,
for decency,
for hope,
for joy,
for unity,
for safety,
for national security,
for bipartisanship,
for prosperity,
for honor,
and for respect.

I am more excited about this vote
than any I have cast in the 36 years I have had the right and privilege to do so.

I understand that the norm in our culture is to keep our ballots private and to avoid talking politics.

But as I have read widely
and listened intently over the past few years
and come—very easily after August 5—to my choice of candidates,
I have also felt compelled to act.
I am in no position to canvas neighborhoods
or serve long hours at polling sites.
I have no notoriety that makes my endorsement hold any value in society.

But I am publicly sharing my ballot to show anyone who may wonder
how a stay-at-home mom
whose faith is central to her life,
who homeschools her children,
who believes in the sanctity of life from womb to tomb,
who is a morally conservative and generally traditional person in many ways
might cast her ballot.

My vote is not a “lesser of two evils” choice.
I wholeheartedly believe
that our nation should be run by someone
who values the rights of and gives respect to every individual in it equally,
who speaks to others with at least the minimal decency I require of my children,
who understands that morality and religion cannot and should not be legislated,
who believes issues like abortion are not political issues and are too complex to be handled as if they are black and white,
and who acknowledges the brokenness in our nation
without damning it and a large percentage of its citizens.

With respect and hope,
I marked my ballot for Vice President Kamala Harris.

I hope she wins,
but if she does not,
my disappointment will contain no despair,
for I live my life as an exile in Babylon,
exercising the rights I am granted here
and participating in society with as much integrity as I can.
But my allegiance is to Jesus and His Kingdom,
which is global and diverse,
not national
or partisan
or white
or male
or heterosexual
or American
and is not threatened in any way by either political victor.

My prayer is that each citizen of our nation
would thoughtfully and intelligently consider
the policies,
words,
behavior,
and character
of each candidate
as reflected in that candidate’s words and actions,
not in ads or clips or propaganda tools,
and cast their vote
as an individual with valid beliefs and opinions,
not as a pawn of any group,
political or otherwise.

May we all live
and treat others
as the Image Bearers that we are—ALL of us.

 

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“Hi, Dad! It’s me…your favorite daughter.”

 
Cancer is a thief.
 
Only he isn’t an ordinary criminal,
Stealing replaceable goods.
He isn’t even a criminal mastermind 
who can always be outmaneuvered 
if enough superheroes band together
like Cancer Avengers—
or Ghostbusters (to keep it light).
 
Cancer is a thief. 
 
He shrunk your six-foot-three frame 
that towered over me all my life
and sometimes intimidated but mostly defended me,
 
Leaving me vulnerable.
 
He reduced your strong arms to twigs,
the ones that shot all those nothing-but-net baskets
and swung Pings like magic wands casting spells over fairways,
 
Leaving me unprotected. 
 
He lowered the volume of your voice 
from a commanding boom to a barely audible whisper and then…
 
Silence.
 
Leaving me alone. 
 
Cancer is a thief. 
 
I was sure I would have at least twenty more years with you.
I was sure I would always be able to call you
for advice on money or cars,
to talk Tar Heel basketball, 
to hear your insights on the minds of men,
or just for no reason at all.
I was sure you would take me to Disney World or the Angus Barn 
Just one more time, Daddy, pleeeaaase…
 
Cancer is a thief, 
but he couldn’t take all of you…
 
The courage
The confidence 
The ingenuity 
The wit
The strong will
The generous spirit—
Locked safely in my very DNA. 
 
The wisdom 
The lessons 
The memories 
The support 
The love
The hope of eternity—
Untouchable.
 
I hate you cancer. 
I miss you, Daddy. 
 
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
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A Decade of Extraordinary

Sometimes I get confused. I see friends my age—empty nesters—traveling the world or earning promotions or devoting themselves to hobbies, and my excitement for them breeds a little discontent in me or even some resentment. I think—momentarily—that I am missing out. But then I remember that I could do and have all those things and more—most anything I wanted really—if I didn’t have the very extraordinary life I do have—the one I chose almost ten years ago and would choose again tomorrow…and the next day…and the next…

Unbeknownst to us, exactly ten days after we buried our son in Albert G. Horton, Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery in Suffolk, Virginia, a surrogate mom halfway across the country was enduring a health crisis that resulted in the premature birth of the babies she carried. I once heard it said that every adoption begins with a tragedy, and I suppose that’s one way to look at it. It may be tempting to focus on the tragedies that comprise the parallel stories of Timothy and the twins, but I prefer to focus on the eventual intersection of those stories as something extraordinary.

Titus and Tess celebrate their birthday today. They have lived a decade of life, and I have shared all but two months of it with them—the two months they weren’t even supposed to be out of the womb. Nothing about their lives has been easy—premature births, brain bleeds, adoption, neurodivergent challenges, divorce. An outsider watching their celebration today will see friends, family, cupcakes, pizza, a playground, some gifts, possibly some rain, and a multitude of sequins. They won’t know that Tess had 63 surgical procedures before her ninth birthday, that a doctor didn’t want to prescribe her glasses because “they wouldn’t make a difference,” or that a surgeon looked at her infant brain MRI and asked me, “Why would anyone want to adopt these babies?” They won’t know how long it took Titus to learn his colors or his letters or how agonizing it is for him to read. They won’t know how many times he has asked me why he has to have a “short memory” or a cerebral shunt that keeps him from enjoying contact sports and trampolines with neighborhood kids. They won’t know that I almost didn’t even know he existed—and that if I hadn’t known, Tess wouldn’t either.

If we could play a highlight reel of this tenth year of their lives, we would see things that may look ordinary for kids of this age…a boy dancing at his brother’s wedding, acting in a play, getting baptized, playing Minecraft with his sister-in-law, solving grade-level math problems, standing at a podium reading aloud in front of a room full of people…a girl writing her name, playing piano, going under water voluntarily, reciting memorized lines in a dramatic performance, drinking water with a straw. But none of these things are the least bit ordinary. They are the culmination of hours and hours of effort that Titus and Tess put in day after day to overcome the challenges caused by the bursting of fragile blood vessels in their tiny premature brains. They are the culmination of hours and hours of diligence from care attendants, siblings, doctors, therapists, grandparents, coaches, teachers, and friends who have believed in them, challenged them, and seen potential where others saw a void. They are like the cards at the top of this post…deceptively sweet and ordinary childhood creations that represent a decade of extraordinary effort and love.

Sometimes I get confused. I am tempted to lament my lack of freedom. I think about the jobs I haven’t held, the books I haven’t written, the places I have never visited. I wonder what it would be like to take an impulse trip or even a planned vacation that doesn’t require the coordination of a multitude of people. But then I remember that anyone with time and money can do those things. My life cannot be bought or replicated. I have the privilege of witnessing the transformation of the ordinary into something extraordinary every single day.

Others may view our lives and see limitation or lack of freedom, and I suppose that’s one perspective. It can be tempting to focus on the things we cannot do—to dwell in the negative space. But like most of life, there are multiple facets to everything, and a slight tilt of the head or turn of the hand can direct the light in such a way that color bursts forth where there was only darkness before.

Ten years ago today, Esther “Tess” Moriah and Titus Asher Barnes were born emergently, a birth day fraught with crisis. Ten days earlier, a little world changer named Timothy José had gone to heaven for his healing, leaving a shocked and grief-stricken family. In the intersection of their stories, God transformed the negative void of Timothy’s death into a space in that family for a brave, strong, incredibly smart little girl and her perceptive, loving, thoughtful twin brother.

Today, I celebrate Titus and Tess’s first decade of life–a decade that has often been unpredictable, hilarious, challenging, hopeful, tragic, and joyful—but always full of love. A decade of shattering barriers, defying expectations, and overcoming adversities. A decade of countless small moments with big significance. And if you tip your head slightly and turn your hand so that the light hits the darkness, you are sure to see that it has been a decade of extraordinary.

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Carolina Girl

Some of my earliest memories include the sounds of basketballs…the rhythmic staccato of a dribble, the solid thump against a glass backboard, the springing vibration of a metal rim, the swish of a net. My dad took me to the junior high gym where he coached in Mecklenburg County as soon as I could walk. From there, I played hours on the asphalt cul-de-sac outside my childhood home and eventually found my way to the gymnasium where I spent the majority of my high school days, not playing but managing and scorekeeping for the Millbrook Wildcats. Every close friend and every guy I ever dated was a part of that team, and I loved every minute of it—from the daily practices to the games and everything in between. I spent hours crafting pre-game encouragement notes and treats to leave on the guys’ lockers week after week. I could sing along with all the beats that filled the air of every away-game bus ride. Rhymes by Run-D.M.C., LL Cool J, Doug E. Fresh, Kurtis Blow, and the Beastie Boys still randomly shuffle through my mind’s soundtrack.

Throughout childhood, I clipped newspaper articles chronicling every Carolina Tar Heel basketball game and carefully adhered them to the pages of magnetic photo albums. As my senior year approached, I typed a resumé and secured a letter of recommendation from our former coach, my high school mentor Chet Mebane, in pursuit of my dream of being a Carolina basketball manager. Receiving the letter from Coach Bill Guthridge notifying me that I had been accepted as a Junior Varsity manager during my freshman year at UNC was almost as exciting as receiving my acceptance letter to UNC, my lifelong dream school and the only college to which I applied.

Being a Carolina basketball manager at even the JV level was exhilarating—a ton of work and even more fun. I spent countless hours of my freshman and sophomore years in the Dean E. Smith Center. We worked all JV practices, all varsity home games, and all JV home and away games. In the summer, we served as counselors for Carolina’s Basketball Camp. I smelled of sweat, oranges, and Gatorade as I slung towels, wiped floors, chased basketballs, and handed Dixie cups of Gatorade to players—J.R. Reid, Hubert Davis, Jeff Lebo, King Rice, Scott Williams, Rick Fox, and many others. I had the privilege of sitting behind the legendary Coach Dean Smith at every home game and will never forget the time he complimented my sweater as we passed in the Dean Dome stairwell that connected the locker room level to the basketball offices.

I let my Carolina basketball manager dream die on a vine that eventually choked out several other dreams and aspects of my identity. Like many teenage girls, I invested too much effort trying to secure a very unhealthy relationship and sacrificed friends, experiences, and beliefs along the way. In the years that followed, I attended games here and there and loosely followed some of the UNC teams from afar as military moves took me out of the Tar Heel State. But mostly I forgot the girl whose blood had bled Carolina blue all of her life.

In 2021, longtime UNC Coach Roy Williams retired. When his successor was named, I did a double take. Hubert Davis was my classmate at UNC and the player I knew the best in my time as a manager. We both wrote letters in the Dean Dome bleachers to our long-distance romances and even went on double-dates when they were in town at the same time. He was hard-working, kind, and humble and I had tremendous respect for him as a freshman surrounded by big stars—stars I later learned he had gone on to outshine. Graduating from college before cell phones or email addresses even existed, I lost touch with most of my college friends. With my head in the proverbial Carolina basketball sand for three decades, I had only a general awareness that Hubert had played professional basketball and spent some time as a commentator, so I was genuinely surprised to learn he had even been an assistant to Coach Williams, much less in the running to succeed him. But I have Hubert to thank for helping me find a piece of myself that went missing for far too long. 

Curious to see my former classmate coach, I began tuning into the UNC games late in the 2021-2022 season. My Carolina blue blood started pumping again as I pulled for this this come-from-behind team and its humble, faith-filled coach I respected so much even when he was just an 18-year-old freshman baller. I pulled out my 1980s Carolina newspaper clippings, dug up photos from my years of managing in high school, updated my UNC gear, and introduced my kids to the joys of being a Tar Heel. I will always remember the April 2022 night that we beat Duke in the Final Four, which was awfully close to as exhilarating as winning the NCAA title two nights later would have been (not quite, but VERY close).

This 2022-2023 season was the first time in thirty years that I have closely followed a Carolina team, watching almost every single game from start to finish. I have loved waking up on game days, choosing how the kids and I will rep the team, and timing our evening routines around timeouts so I wouldn’t miss any plays. It was a rough season that culminated in Carolina becoming the first team ranked number one in the preseason who did not even make the NCAA tournament. My heart broke for Armando Bacot and his fellow seniors and teammates who had descended from the mountain of the NCAA Finals to the valley of an NIT invitation. The social media chatter has been brutal! Seeing how fickle the “fans” can be, I made it a mission to always be the encouraging fan in the comments. We may be accustomed to success, but a true Tar Heel is loyal no matter what challenges a given team faces–the only kind of fan I want to be.

I lost so much of myself in my efforts to navigate adulthood, parenthood, and an unhealthy marriage. Over the past five years, I have slowly begun to pick up the lost pieces of myself and see how and whether they fit into my life now. I have been rediscovering loves I buried, digging up beliefs I denied, and reigniting passions I had forgotten. Part of the process has been accepting the loss of some of my dreams to broken promises and others to poor choices or my own martyrdom. Part of it has been making peace with my roles in life.

Remembering and rediscovering my passion for UNC basketball has not only been super fun but has given me a new perspective on a piece of myself. When I remember my years as a high school basketball manager, I think so fondly of the friends I made there and the times we shared. I think of how valued I felt by the coach and players as I repeatedly performed the monotonous but essential tasks of ensuring the players were hydrated, safe, and encouraged and that their efforts were accurately reflected in the scorebook. I never desired to be on the floor making the plays but thrived in my element of team caretaker and encourager. 

Picking up this lost piece of myself and reflecting on it in light of today has given me a new perspective on what appears to be my life work as a caretaker and encourager. Seeing it through the lens of my past joy as a Millbrook Wildcat and UNC Tar Heel basketball manager has helped me realize that caretaking, encouraging, and managing are actually central parts of my identity—how God knit me together—not something that just happened to me or that I must resign myself to accept. I willingly chose those roles as a teenager who had the freedom to make an array of choices. I played the roles naturally and well and found them very fulfilling. The people I met in those contexts were “my people,” and I have even reconnected with some of them over the past few years. The revelation that my life today actually reflects my heart thirty years ago has brought me much-needed peace and joy.

As I watch my Heels play each game, I always notice the hard work of the managers on the sidelines. A part of me will always wonder if I would have ever made the elite Varsity Manager team. The odds were not in my favor, but I’ll never know because I walked away from the opportunity. Instead of focusing on what I can’t recover, however, I am choosing to be grateful to have rediscovered something I temporarily lost. I am having a blast sharing Carolina basketball with the people I love most in the world—my kids—just like my dad shared it with me. 

I thought that when the NIT kicks off this week, I would be glued to my TV, decked out in Tar Heel gear, cheering for Leaky, Armando, Pete, Caleb, and R.J., regardless of what postseason tournament title they pursued. However, shortly after the NCAA brackets were announced, UNC Basketball released a statement saying that the team is choosing not to participate in the 2023 NIT. Coach Davis stated that “now is the time to focus on moving ahead,” a lesson I have learned well these past five years. I respect his discernment in making that choice and the wisdom of putting what his players need ahead of what may be expected. So I will pack my UNC gear away until next season when I will eagerly cheer on the next Tar Heel team. Win or lose, I won’t forget my roots again…

I’m a Tar Heel born.
I’m a Tar Heel bred.
And when I die I’ll be a Tar Heel dead.
So it’s rah rah Carolina-lina.
Rah rah Carolina-lina.
Rah rah Carolina-lina–go to hell Duke!

Welcome back, Carolina Girl. I missed you.

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The Space Between

I squinted uncertainly at the light peering in through my daughter’s window, struggling to clear the fog of a too short sleep. Beneath the fog laid an awareness that I was in that precarious space between. One year had ended just before I fell asleep, and I had awakened to another. As Lucy pushed back the coats of the wardrobe and stepped onto the crunchy snow of Narnia, I greeted 2022 with curiosity: Will you be as bizarre as your two older siblings in the second decade of the 21st century? What unimaginable losses and gains will we tally to you a year from now? Will I graduate this year? Will I find the fortitude to launch another adult child, knowing the crater that will leave in my days? What new barriers will my youngest children break? Will I finally be divorced this year, or will I “celebrate” thirty years of marriage marriage in May? Will this year be a year of healing for the father I am certain I cannot live without? What books will I read, words will I write, songs will I sing off-key? Where will I travel? Who will I meet? Where and how will God meet me?

I am surprised by how comfortable the space between has become. For so long I tried to control it, rush through it, or fight it. It was too uncertain, too anticipatory, too unknown. It is still those things, so it must be me who has changed—or more likely, me who has been changed. In so many ways I have learned to live in a perpetual space between; perhaps that was the only way I could begin to tolerate ambiguity—to learn to trust. For so long, I planted my feet on shifting unstable structures and expected them to hold me up. 

I made so many of my life’s greatest mistakes in an effort to squirm out of the discomfort of the space between—so uncomfortable living with heartbreak or loneliness that I was willing to close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears while marching further into unhealthy situations because turning to the right or left—or worse, going backward—seemed unbearable. The toxic familiar becomes deceptively safe.

Some of the spaces between seem unbearably difficult—infertility, a terminal diagnosis, a catastrophic injury. I recently read and was forever changed by the memoir of Anthony Ray Hinton, an innocent man who spent thirty years on death row. In reflecting on a turning point in his unjust, inhumane incarceration, Hinton wrote: “…I realized that the State of Alabama could steal my future and my freedom, but they couldn’t steal my soul or my humanity. And they most certainly couldn’t steal my sense of humor. I missed my family. I missed Lester. But sometimes you have to make family where you find family, or you die in isolation. I wasn’t ready to die. I wasn’t going to make it that easy on them. I was going to find another way to do my time. Whatever time I had left. Everything, I realized, is a choice. And spending your days waiting to die is no way to live” (The Sun Does Shine, p. 118).

Hinton’s situation was truly unimaginable. He lived in a horrifically unjust space between—a space between justice and injustice, between truth and a lie, between imprisonment and freedom—and until the Equal Justice Initiative become involved in his case, he had no tangible hope to leave that space. Even when Bryan Stevenson agreed to represent Hinton, the space between extended for twenty-six more years—far too many. Reading how Hinton used his space between to learn and serve and love and forgive will forever be one of the most inspirational experiences in my life. Hinton made those choices with absolutely no guarantee that his space between would not dissolve into his final space.

Ultimately, isn’t all of life the space between? Not of this world, my heart longs for eternity; however, recognizing this does not mean living in constant limbo or uncertainty, for unlike the space between of the days and years of life, eternity has a seemingly contradictory concreteness about it—being both incomprehensible and utterly safe because the God who promised it is both mystery and certainty.

Sure, there are inherent restrictions in my space between. Until I graduate, I cannot write or teach as a PhD—at least not in any formal capacity. Without the closure of divorce, I cannot seek another relationship—at least not a healthy one in which I have a truly free, truly whole, truly healed self to offer another. I have learned to anticipate those events with an expectancy rather than an urgency—exploring the space between instead of trying to deny it or fill it prematurely. 

Now it is July and this year is half over—I did celebrate my 30th wedding anniversary with a glorious (and borderline scandalous) trip to New York City in honor of my daughter and her best friend’s high school graduations. I was unexpectedly whisked off my feet by the infamous Naked Cowboy who serenaded me in Times Square with a slightly crass anniversary song. I saw all but one of the original cast members in Hadestown, an incredibly thought-provoking show that is also about the space between, in its own way. And then I came home, got COVID, healed, finished my dissertation, and lost my teaching job for next year due to lack of enrollment in this crazy economy.  

So much is still unknown about this year—I might graduate, my divorce might finally be finalized, I might find a new job. Perhaps another cowboy will whisk me off my feet? Beyond that, who knows? When I submitted my complete dissertation draft, a friend asked if I felt light as a feather. I told her “Not yet. I feel like I gave birth to a baby who is in the NICU and I’m not sure how long it will be there.” But that doesn’t scare me like it used to—this space between. It forces me to trust, makes me comfortable with mystery, and keeps me from thinking I am in control—vital components of a life of faith in a God who reveals Himself but not necessarily His plan. The only life for me.

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Wait

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I have a playlist called Motivate Me.  It’s pretty short so far—only five songs—but I play it so often that the kids know all the words to all five songs.  Hearing Titus blare, “This girl is on fire” always makes me chuckle.

Lydia’s favorite song on the playlist is “Speechless,” the song Disney added to the new live-action Aladdin soundtrack, one of our absolute favorite albums this summer.  At the top of her lungs, Lydia belts Jasmine’s lyrics:  “I won’t be silenced; You can’t keep me quiet!”  And I hope she believes that with everything in her.

That sentiment is also why I can’t postpone writing for another week!  I took the summer off of personal writing to knock out four grad classes in two eight-week terms that overlapped by two weeks (oops…didn’t see that in the schedule when I registered).  My summer writing consisted of annotated bibliographies, research papers, article reviews, and case studies.  I survived, and I loved (almost) every minute.  But I am more than ready to break out of academic writing mode and resume the personal writing that had become such an important part of my life last winter and spring.

I’m sure the accumulated summer stories will trickle out slowly over the coming weeks.  As the highlight reel runs through my mind, it contains such a varied collection of memories:  Maya’s PA school graduation and party; another amazing (partial) week at Sandy Cove Family Camp; the rebirth and tragic death of my vegetable garden; cherished outings and visits with my older kids; surgery and a terrifying incident involving Lydia (she’s fine now); a beautiful wedding in northern Virginia; a trip to see my family; hours upon hours of studying and writing in various Hampton Roads coffee shops; two meetings of my new book club; countless outings to the aquarium, children’s museum, CFA, Sweet Frog, and other favorite spots with Lydia, Titus, and Tess; seeing Jonah work incredibly hard at a full-time job AND complete high school early; health issues for some dear friends and family; yet another custody and support hearing delay; celebrating the one-year anniversary in my beloved home; and the addition of Emet, the cutest—and most exasperating—little Cavadoodle puppy in all the world, to our family!

I was a little nervous about the summer because our temporary custody order gave the kids an extra day at their dad’s house each week.  When they are gone, the house is eerily quiet—and clean—but mostly quiet.  What would I do with that extra time without them?  My first instinct was to travel and reconnect with several friends I hadn’t seen in awhile, but schedules are difficult to match up, so only three trips made the calendar.  The extra time alone intimidated me at first.  When I am alone with my thoughts and feelings, I can either face them or numb them.  Numbing is decidedly easier and more fun, but taking that deep breath and facing them brought a freedom and joy that will last far longer than any numbing techniques ever did.

If I had to sum up what God revealed to me over the past summer (and really the entire last year) in one word, it would be WAIT.  He has told me repeatedly to wait.  And not just to wait but to do it patiently, quietly, and in stillness. All my years of trying to fix or fight or emote in response to trials or injustices or hurt, and He just keeps saying “Wait.” Where’s the power in that?!?

Scripturally, waiting is a common theme…Elijah and Noah waited for rain.  Ruth waited for a redeemer.  Hannah, Elizabeth, and Sarah waited for a child.  The bleeding woman waited for healing. The Israelites waited to see the Promised Land.  Anna waited to see the Messiah.

But practically, it seems that waiting is one of the hardest things for us to do, especially in our modern culture when we literally have instant access to pretty much everything we want or need.  Google, Amazon Now, Instacart, Door Dash, and Uber seem to have us covered. But some things are not instant. Fighting for justice requires a perseverant strength.  Grief cannot be rushed.  Teaching a child is a slow, deliberate process.  Educating yourself takes hours of committed study and effort.

This summer—and all year—I have discovered that the power in waiting for the Lord to move is a deep, abiding power.  It is unlike anything I have experienced before, and once again I am left thanking God for unthinkable circumstances because they have driven me to Him in ways I would have never gone instinctively or willingly.  I recently discovered the song “Scars” by I Am They.  I cried every time I heard it for the first few weeks because it resonated so deeply with me. If I was remotely musical, this is the song I would have written because it so perfectly tells my story:

“Waking up to a new sunrise
Looking back from the other side
I can see now with open eyes
Darkest water and deepest pain
I wouldn’t trade it for anything
‘Cause my brokenness brought me to You
And these wounds are a story You’ll use

So I’m thankful for the scars
‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart
And I know they’ll always tell of who You are
So forever I am thankful for the scars

Now I’m standing in confidence
With the strength of Your faithfulness
And I’m not who I was before
No, I don’t have to fear anymore

So I’m thankful for the scars
‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart
And I know they’ll always tell of who You are
So forever I am thankful for the scars

I can see, I can see
How You delivered me
In Your hands, In Your feet
I found my victory
I can see, I can see
How You delivered me
In Your hands, In Your feet
I found my victory

I’m thankful for Your scars
‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart
And with my life I’ll tell of who You are
So forever I am thankful

I’m thankful for the scars
‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart
And I know they’ll always tell of who You are
So forever I am thankful for the scars
So forever I am thankful for the scars” (“Scars” by I Am They)

Because of His faithfulness and the confidence it brings, because of His deliverance and the victory it guarantees, because of His sacrifice and the salvation it offers, I can obey Him without reservation or hesitation.  And so I wait.  I wait for resolution in my marriage and while I wait, I honor the covenant, not for him but for HIM.  I wait for justice, knowing it comes not through legal courts but through the perfect JUDGE.  I wait for healing, taking the quiet spaces He has gifted to me and being willing to feel the pain and offer it up to Him bit by bit, trusting Him to build something beautiful out of all of my broken pieces.

And while I wait, I treasure every moment with every child because in my children, I see God’s redemption of all the mistakes I have made.  I cherish every friend because in them I feel tangible evidence of His loving care for me.  I value the places He has provided for me to live life because they are full of joy and beauty and people who make me smile.  I relish my church community where I can worship with genuine gratitude and a newfound freedom, hear truth, and share life with a lot of other imperfect people.  I serve with a desperate desire to make a difference in people’s lives.  I study and write because I want to learn and grow and nurture the gifts and interests He gave me.

It’s a new experience for me to not think much about the future—what it will look like, how timing will play out, how needs will be met.  Instead, I mostly think about what He is doing and revealing while I wait.  And I marvel at the fact that knowing that it is all in His hands is actually enough for me. While it seems entirely counterintuitive, one of the best things that happened to me was having some of my greatest fears realized and then recognizing that I’m not only still standing, but I am better for it.  “Darkest water and deepest pain, wouldn’t trade it for anything, ‘cause my brokenness brought me to you”—a place where waiting is the most powerful thing I can do.

 

“Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint” (Isaiah 40:29-30, ESV).

 

 

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All the Light We Cannot See

 

 

 

In honor of Titus and Tess’s 6th birthdays, I had planned to repost the inaugural entry from this blog because 1) it tells the story of their adoption, and 2) I am swamped with academic papers and haven’t found much time for personal writing lately.  But before I could do that, I read a post on Facebook from someone I consider to be part of our family.  Once I stopped sobbing, I asked her permission to share it here, and she agreed.  So in her own words, here is the story of June 8, 2013 from Crystal, the twins’ surrogate mom:

 

This is long and I am sorry but I just can’t believe it was 6 years ago, how can it be? I remember sitting at the karate studio having the strangest pain nothing like any labor. Called the Dr and I just knew within minutes there was nothing I could do these babies were coming!! The worst part is I knew I couldn’t stop it now matter how hard I tried!

From the moment I was 13 I knew I wanted to help families that couldn’t have babies. After I had Kailynn I knew our family was complete and I decided I wanted to give families something they have yearned so hard to have for themselves! It wasn’t an easy process matching cycles, lots of hormones, shots and Dr visits every week, but I didn’t care, even if I didn’t get paid ONE dime this was something I wanted to do.

After being a surrogate with my first Surro baby, my heart still felt incomplete in my journey. I just felt that tug from God saying “Crystal your not done yet”.

I listened to the whisper and met with my consultant and was told there was a family from France that would love to meet with me and discuss be being their surrogate.

We connected and I was so excited to be helping a family again and I just could not wait to get this process started again. We talked every day even through such a language barrier, we had a bond that I thought nothing could separate.

I became pregnant with twins and we were all sooooo excited I had two beautiful babies that I got to help bring into this world for a family that otherwise would not be able to have.

We spent everyday talking, I would record every heart beat and send them videos, I would record my belly to show them their babies moving. This was their pregnancy I wanted them to experience everything no matter how far the distance!

We found out it was a boy and girl just what they wanted! Names were decided within minutes and me Chad and the kids were beyond happy for them.

I went about my pregnancy like normal, loving food, swollen feet, dr appointments and the daily grind. About 27weeks I went in for some labor pain turned out to be a UTI and was sent home with an antibiotic. All was good and I felt back to my normal self

Two weeks later a whirlwind in my life I had never prepared for came!! I’m sitting in the karate studio when Logan was preparing for his black belt exam and this crazy burning sensation came I thought ok this UTI is back, I call the Dr and they suggested I come to the office. I started gathering my things and within seconds of getting off the phone I KNEW something was wrong! By the time I got to the car I was begging chad to hurry just speed up, just get me to the hospital these babies are coming and something isn’t right! He rushes me there I tell him don’t even park the car leave the kids In it at the front door and just throw me at the desk with my wheel chair and I’ll take care if it so he could get the kids.

I remember the lady at the desk saying don’t worry mom this happens all the time and it isn’t the real thing yet so don’t worry. I remember looking at her and saying run lady I know this is real as I’m literally starting to undress knowing what was to come. As we raced through the halls I’m just at a loss trying to keep these babies in, praying nothing is wrong, and just wishing this lady would hurry up!!!

We get up stairs and the door and as the nurse comes she looks at me and says don’t worry we will have a room soon I said NO NOW!! As at this point I cared less who was there. I still remember the looks from the nurses like this isn’t real it’s the typical mother lol until that moment of them checking me saying “oh no she is ready to go baby is coming”!

I was devastated what did I do wrong why is this happening? These babies are too early, I failed the parents etc.. I got to the c-section room and I just prayed please God let these babies be ok!! I was going to try and deliver until the ultrasound showed that Thomas (Titus) didn’t have a heartbeat.. so emergency C-section was the only option. I remember my Dr rushing. So many nurses and me just praying with all my might! Minutes felt like hours and all I wanted was to hear babies cry! Just cry, cry like all my others then I know it’s ok…. there was nothing worse then hearing nothing but nurses and waiting, then finally I heard the faintest cries which at least gave me a moment of security.

The moments to follow were the hardest moments of my life!!! I sat with my Dr and we talked about the babies, the love the compassion and the care he showed me was a moment I will NEVER forget. He sat by my bed side and talked to me not as a patient but as a friend. Which is what I needed, I was told that they are ok but with the tough delivery and how hard it was to get them out we were sure not the extent of damage. I was told that Thomas(Titus) would have to be immediately taken to Illinois masonic and Tess would remain with me at Sherman.

Before they transferred Thomas (Titus) I was able to see him and he was so precious and soon after I got to walk to meet Tess. While all this craziness was happening I made sure that chad called the parents and told them what was happening so they could hurry and get here!! Their babies needed them, I was would of course take care of them but they needed their mommy!!

In the mean time of waiting, Tess also needed to be transported they both were showing signs of brian bleeds. It was the worse feeling knowing that there parents weren’t here and they were alone in another hospital with no one.

And then the moment I NEVER thought could even happen did!
The parents came and visited me and we did all the legalities. Ate lunch and I told them everything, showed them pictures and told them how beautiful their babies were!! They were so happy. They left the hospital and went to go see them! I was so excited for them, even though this wasn’t an ideal situation and we didn’t know what was to come they were going to see their babies.

Well instead of loving their babies they looked at them as not perfect and no longer wanted them:( they literally told the drs that they were imperfect and to pull the plug on them and let them die! The Drs told them your babies are sick, but they are not dying! Miles away when I heard this I fell to my knees sobbing. How!!! How could a mother who wanted children so badly look at her two beautiful children and GIVE UP! How could you tell them to let them DIE!!

After they met with the counselors they said well we will see what happens.. the hardest part was that I continued to have to convince this family to LOVE there children, convince them to want them, how do you do that?? it was the most heartbreaking moment in my life!! They told me they were going to keep the stronger one which at the time in their eyes Thomas (Titus) and put the other one up for adoption, which at the time was I told them No don’t do that they can not be separated! If that was the case let us adopt Tess so they can have some type relationship. They seemed on board with it and then all the sudden we never would see them. I would drive breast milk every other day for them and never see them, the nurses would tell me they would only come for a few minutes and leave.

About two weeks later, I get a call saying that they put both up for a closed adoption and left. They didn’t text, call or anything. All I knew is that I could never talk to anyone about them… and the fact of explaining all of this to my children, which is a whole other book haunted me!

I continued to visit and bring them milk and prayed that these parents would understand that these babies are beautiful, prayed that I had the means and could adopt them, prayed that they would not become part of the state. I spent months in agony just wanting these babies loved and trying to convince myself I didn’t do anything wrong! I had so much guilt and pain.

Then God answered my prayers!!! While the hospital couldn’t give me information on the adoption or anything. They knew how much I loved them and how much I dedicated time to them and visited them multiple times a week! They told me that a wonderful family had chosen to adopt them BOTH!!!! I was not allowed to have any other info but in that I was happy and relieved. Still heartbroken at these parents who have lied to me and betrayed my family but happy that I know the babies would be loved. I asked the hospital if I could at least give them a letter from me and the kids for them to have. Which they allowed I never thought I would receive anything back what we did!!!

This family was perfect and it allowed my heart to heal and took every worry I had ever had away!!!

I know that the journey was hell and even with what I wrote here it doesn’t even cover nearly 10% of my emotions or the full experience, but I know that my journey was not invain and there was a bigger plan from the beginning that I knew nothing about!

People ask me would you go through this experience ever again and my answer is Absolutely !!!! Some parents go through many obstacles to have children and will do anything for them! While I started this journey for a French couple it turns out the journey all long was for someone else longing and hurting…. it is crazy how life’s plan works and how you can be tested to trust the process!

I know these babies are well taken care of and loved and have EVERYTHING they need!!! I know they are having a great day celebrating how wonderful it is to be 6!!!!!

I know this was a crazy book, but such a part of my life that has for ever changed me!

Happy 6th birthday Beautiful babies!!!

 

My book club recently met to discuss the masterfully crafted novel, All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.  We discussed the title at length, contemplating what the light we cannot see represents.  This morning as I reflect on Titus and Tess’s birthday, the phrase seems to fit their lives so perfectly.  I could not see why Timothy had to die. Crystal could not see why the twins’ biological family made the choice they made.  But when the Lord intersected our lives, we both saw what we had not been able to see before.  And it was a beautiful story filled with light–the light of Jesus who provides heavenly homes for little boys whose bodies are worn out on earth and earthly homes for orphan babies who need a forever family.  And I cling to this idea of the light I cannot see when my heart breaks that the marriage of this forever family seems broken beyond repair because it doesn’t make sense that God would give such a broken gift to little babies in need.  But I had the same question when God placed Timothy in a family that couldn’t keep him safely at home.  And God’s response then was, “You can never adopt the wrong child.”  So I have to hope that He also says to Titus and Tess, “You can never adopt the wrong family.”

He is sovereign and He is good, and no matter what pain or desperation or dismal circumstance we face, He will bring light to darkness and joy from mourning and love from pain.  Sometimes we are privileged to see it and sometimes we just have trust that it is there–invisible to us but crystal clear to Him who sees all.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful babies, Esther “Tess” Moriah and Titus Asher.  You were chosen.  You are gifts.  And even when I question hardships and circumstances, I never question you or your places in our perfectly imperfect family–the light we could not see–that shines on so many lives every single day.

 

Related post:  A New Call

 

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Treasured Things

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In honor of Mother’s Day, which always triggers memories of his last four days of life, this post is a reprint of the message I shared at the Celebration of Life for Timothy José Barnes….my son…a world changer.

In October 2008, as I sat rocking my newborn baby daughter who had been born with Down syndrome and a congenital heart defect, God first put it in my heart to adopt another baby with similar issues. Over time that leading became a call for our entire family.

From the moment we were contacted about “baby José,” I wanted nothing more than to bring him home and fill his life with love and opportunity. I remember sitting at the desk in my office looking out the window into our backyard. I could just see this sweet little boy running around chasing chickens and playing with his siblings. Sure, there would be hurdles to overcome—a heart surgery his first spring and certainly some developmental challenges, but nothing we couldn’t handle. We knew that he and the other kids would enrich each other’s lives so much and that he and Lydia could grow up together and be lifelong companions. That was our dream, and I believed it to be our call.

But as the days and weeks and months unfolded, nothing went according to plan. Surgeries, ventilators, trachs, and g-tubes came into the picture. I resisted all of them with a vengeance until it was obvious they were the only option. Still I was sure that the turning point was just around the corner. Each week I told the kids, if we can just make it through this week, he’ll come home, and everything will be better. Those weeks turned into months, and yet I clung to the call I believed God had placed on us, and I fought with all of my being to get Timothy home. I was certain that a home and a family were the things he needed most of all.

When Timothy finally did come home in May of last year, we quickly realized that he was a much more fragile baby than we thought. He almost lost his life on the floor of our family room. I had never before seen death hover over anyone, and it scared me. For the first time, I realized that what Timothy needed most could not be found in our home…that he had a lot more healing to do. This wrecked me for a while. I questioned God, asking why he would place this precious boy into a family who could not give him what he needed most—24-hour one-on-one medical care. It seemed like a mismatch—Timothy and his siblings were supposed to enrich each other’s lives, yet they couldn’t even live in the same home. It just didn’t make sense. At one point, I even told God that I was willing to let Timothy go if he had a better family for him…one that could give him the medical care he needed at home or could stay in the hospital with him all day every day. But God said, “No, he is yours, and you are his. Trust me.”

I finally accepted that, as much as I wanted otherwise, Timothy was not ready to be in our home… YET. This realization brought a new level of trust, calmness, and peace. I let go of my need to control every aspect of his care, and God filled the gap with countless medical providers and friends who cared for Timothy as if he was their very own. We were able to settle into a “new normal,” and we did our best to balance the needs of all of our children. We knew that Timothy was getting what he needed to come home to stay, and we tried to let go of the guilt of all that we were not able to give him. We trusted God’s perfect timing and walked patiently behind Him one week at a time.

Timothy began to make slow but steady progress. He grew. His lungs began to heal. He became more stable and so interactive. He loved to play wildly with his toys and amazed everyone with his impressive yoga poses. He blew kisses, made raspberries, and gave away big, toothy grins. My best memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas last year were the times we spent with him in the TCU altogether as a family. When I visited him in the evenings and on the weekends, we would sing songs together or cuddle or read stories. I would always rearrange his toys before I left and turn on his music. Somehow that made it easier to leave, thinking I had left behind surprises for him. This spring he finally came off the ventilator and was doing so well that his doctors agreed to attempt to wean his trach before sending him home. They began that process and things looked SO promising.

The call we received at 6:24 a.m. on Tuesday, May 14, came out of nowhere. He had been just fine the day before, just a little fever, which was commonplace for him. I had visited him the night before, and I knew he was coming down with something because he fell asleep almost as soon as I picked him up. I just enjoyed the time holding him because he is usually such a wiggle worm. In hindsight, I should have known something was more wrong than usual because when I put him under his play gym that he loved so much, he did not reach up and pull his monkey toy that plays music. He ALWAYS pulls the monkey toy. I should have known then, but I didn’t. Exactly 36 hours later, our sweet Timothy was gone. We were left reeling with questions of how and why this could have happened. He was so close to coming home and living out the dreams we had for him. How could this be?

I confess that my first thoughts were wrong thoughts…I wondered if God was punishing me for all of the ways I had sinned over the past year and a half. Stress brings out the best and worst in us, and I was heavy in the worst department, especially with my own dear husband. But we serve a forgiving and loving God, and “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus,” so I knew there had to be some other purpose.

Several days later God brought to mind a passage of scripture that I knew contained the answer. It is from Luke, Chapter 2, Verses 41-51:

‘Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom. And when the feast was ended, as they were returning, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem. His parents did not know it, but supposing him to be in the group they went a day’s journey, but then they began to search for him among their relatives and acquaintances, and when they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem, searching for him. After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. And when his parents saw him, they were astonished. And his mother said to him, ‘Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been searching for you in great distress.’ And he said to them, ‘Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be about my Father’s business?’ And they did not understand the saying that he spoke to them. And he went down with them and came to Nazareth and was submissive to them. And his mother treasured up all these things in her heart.’

The dream we had for Timothy to come home and run in our yard and play with our kids and grow up to be Lydia’s life companion was a good dream, but it was too small for this little boy. He was a world changer, and to be a world changer, he needed to be out in the world rather than confined to a 3-acre lot in Chesapeake.

‘Son, why have you treated us so? Your father and I have tried everything in our power to bring you home, to love and raise you with your brother and your sisters and to give you the life your birth parents wanted you to have.’ And he said to them, ‘Why did you want me to come home? Did you not know that I must be about my Father’s business? There were doctors and nurses and therapists and janitors and old friends and new friends and complete strangers who I would have never met in the confines of our home. But my Father set me apart to touch their lives and hearts. He loved and spoke to others through me, and they are better for knowing me.’

And his mother treasured up all these things in her heart and realized that she was one of those people that Timothy’s heavenly Father loved and spoke to through him. And that yes, the road had been hard,and she had made plenty of mistakes along the way. And no, her dreams for him did not come true. But she wouldn’t change anything…even the hard parts. And he taught her many things that amazed her.

From his birth parents, she learned that sometimes the most loving thing you can do for someone is to let them go.

She learned that God can use the broken—even the very broken like herself—to do His work.

She discovered that we are called to do hard things, things we never wanted or expected to do— and that the harder the thing we are called to do, the more God meets us in the midst of it.

She learned that the least of these are indeed the greatest. And that those who care for the least of these—especially the medical community—are serving the Lord Himself.

And perhaps the most powerful lesson of all, she learned at the very end of his life as she reflected back on it in its entirety…She learned that no matter how many wounds we suffer, we still have the capacity for love and joy—we just have to choose to walk in them.

And then God told her that He had released ‘our brother Timothy’ from his call…that his work was done and it was time for him to run and play and dance and sing just as she always wanted him to do…only not in her physical home but in her eternal home.

“And his mother treasured up all these things in her heart”…and she knew that she would never be the same.  

 

Related post: Nothing Can Separate Us

 

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Stepping Stones

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The first time I met Frances, I was a (relatively) young mom of three who was in the process of having my faith slowly thawed out after many years of confusion and anger at the God I had concluded must exist but couldn’t possibly care about me.  Frances taught a discipleship Sunday School class at the church our family had recently started attending, and I don’t remember a word of what she said that first morning because I could not stop staring at her Bible.  The cover was tattered and the pages were filled with markings—highlights and underlines and notes scribbled in the margins of what seemed like every single page.  In my naïve state of awe, I vividly remember assuming that she must have lost her husband or a child or endured some terrible hardship to have spent that much time reading her Bible.

Frances went on to become a spiritual mentor to me during our years at that church and even after we moved away, until hardships in both of our lives stole our opportunities for long telephone conversations.  But I have never forgotten her Bible, despite accepting that my love for having multiple Bibles—one in my book bag, one in my church bag, one from when I was thirteen, one by my special chair…—means that I will likely never have a Bible quite like Frances’s.

But because of the testimony her Bible spoke to me that Sunday morning almost sixteen year ago and some internal vow I likely made to seek that kind of “relationship” with my Bible, I constantly write notes in all of my Bibles.  Sometimes they are from messages or sermons I hear, but more often they are notes about what God says to me individually through particular passages.  Often I will write people’s names and dates in the margins so that I will remember a word someone shared with me or that God gave me to share with someone else.  Frances taught me to do that all those years ago, and the older my memory gets, the more I appreciate it.

After Easter a few weeks ago, I was trying to determine what to do for a devotional since the one I had used for Lent was (technically) over (even though I somehow managed to not finish the last three days of it!?).  I felt the Lord leading me to spend some time reading through the margin notes in my most marked up copy of the Bible, the one I bought while Frances mentored me.  I had never done this in a deliberate, systematic way, and the experience captivated me!

First I realized that the name at the front of my Bible was no longer accurate, so I crossed through it and symbolically dated the corrected surname as I wrote it onto the page.  I saw my “cardboard testimony” from 2011:  “Once a hopeless sinner; now a hopeful sinner hidden in Christ.” Yep, still true!  I read a note I had written on the title page after taking a two-year Bethel Intensive Bible Training course with my pastor: “The Bible teaches what it means to teach.” (Bethel 2003-2005)  I read life-giving words of prophecy and encouragement that had been spoken over me throughout the decade and a half that I had used this Bible, including most of chapter 14 of the book of Exodus that I have written so much about these past few months.  I remembered people and events I had not thought of in many years and read their cards and notes that had meant so much to me that I had placed them into the pages of my Bible for safekeeping.

Eventually I stumbled upon a piece of notebook paper neatly folded and tucked into the Book of Ezekiel.  At the top of the page, I had written “For Mother’s Day 2015…”  As soon as I began to read, a flood of negative memories filled my mind.  I recalled sitting in my car by a lake, sobbing and scribbling my heart out to the Lord that Mother’s Day afternoon.  My marriage had slowly and quietly become a place of deep darkness, and the toxicity that resulted in both of us had finally started to spill out over the entire family.  Knowing my children were now experiencing the pain of our mistakes broke my mother’s heart.  Words like failure and poison and darkness and details I would never want anyone else to read filled the front and back of that single sheet of notebook paper.  As difficult as it was to read and remember that day, I am so grateful that I captured and saved my desperate outpourings. Near the end of the back page, I had written a prayer…”Come Holy Spirit, come!  Send angels to minister to my broken heart and to bind the wounds.  Fill me anew and let me focus my eyes upon you, and soften my heart toward those who have hurt me. Redeem my days, oh God.  Let them not be in vain.”  And alongside the prayer I had written this Scripture that the Lord had immediately shared in response:

“For this is what the Sovereign Lord says:  I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep.  I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness.” (Ezekiel 34:11-12, NIV)

I then turned to that passage in my Bible and saw a note in the margin dated 12/16/12—just before Timothy’s first Christmas with us—a Christmas we spent in the Transitional Care Unit at the Children’s Hospital.  The note in the margin said, “I am the Lord’s precious and loved sheep and He will always care for me (vision in prayer time).”

The Lord had given me that vision two-and-a-half years before that miserable Mother’s Day in 2015.  I may not have known all that was to come—the death of a child, the adoption of twins, the destruction of a marriage, the unraveling of a family—but He knew, and He promised in advance to search for me and to look after me and to rescue me.  And He reminded me of that promise when the darkness became so thick that it overwhelmed me.

Turning page after page of my Bible, I could see so clearly how He has kept His promise to me and to my children. It may not have been in the ways I expected or even wanted, but He is faithfully walking me THROUGH (not around) the dark valley to a place of light and abundance.

1 Samuel 7 recounts the story of Samuel calling people to abandon their idols and false gods and return to the Lord with all their hearts.  He then sacrificed and interceded on behalf of the Israelites, and God delivered them mightily in a battle with the Philistines. Samuel responded by setting up a stone.  “He named it Ebenezer, saying, ‘Thus far has the Lord helped me.’” (1 Samuel 7:12, NIV)

As I flipped through my Old Testament notes, I realized that the value of capturing them isn’t just to remember the past.  It is so much more. Every time I remember His faithfulness, I lay an Ebenezer stone.  The stones not only represent the Lord’s provision in the past, they provide a place of sure footing for walking forward.  Some are boulder-size, representing major deliverance or miraculous provision.  Others are small but much-needed gifts of a timely word of simple truth spoken just when I needed it most.  No matter the size of the stones, I can stand on them, resting in His kept promises and gaining strength for that next step.  The path He has for me is not visible for miles ahead but is revealed one stepping stone at a time.

I call upon Him. He answers. I remember.  And another stone is laid, ready for my next step of faith.

 

“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you.  You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed…And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved; for on Mount Zion and in Jerusalem there will be deliverance, as the Lord has said, among the survivors whom the Lord calls.” (Joel 25-26, 32, NIV)