To Those Who Are Poor In Spirit

The heaping mound of responsibilities and disappointments accumulated by my late 30's had tried, sneakily and quietly, to drown out my childlike instinct to live with wonder and celebration. Over the past few years I have rediscovered the celebration of the uneventful today, as if reunited with someone I forgot I once knew. Maybe it's truer to say that pain and loss, in its universal way, has forced me to find joy in the simpler things of life.

One of the purely bright sides of walking in the shoes as a Special Needs parent, has been experiencing the unfiltered happiness of our baby girl's successes. And let me tell you, every letter of the word 'success' has been wildly redefined. The stubbornness of my 'normal' kids would have been processed as an exhaustive burden, whereas Whitty's stubbornness is proudly pinned on her like a golden stared asset of determination and survival skills. The colossal amount of time it takes for her to put on her leggings is met with claps, and kisses, and compliments; in contrast, my other children's stalling would have received an irritated reminder to 'hurry it along.' The barn doors of defining success have all but blown far and away in the storm. 

I recently read how suffering and grief expands and stretches the soul to burgeoning expanses. Likewise, we can consequently experience the comfort and joy of the Lord to the same capacity that the loneliness and sorrows have distended our souls. Beatitudes, anyone? 

The blessing in the Christian life is allowing, not resisting, the marriage between both loss and joy, pain and comfort.  In A Grace Disguised, Jerry Sittser suggests that maturity is not found in striving to get over the loss, to graduate from the pain, since that would be both futile and without honor to what once was. In the case of losing a loved one, having a body marred by Cancer, carrying the burdens for a child with disabilities, etc., peace is floating in the hope and sustenance of the Grace of Christ, while reality swims, ever all around you. It's the supernatural, unexplainable gift of God to experience both peace and heavenly joy in our most raw vulnerabilities and weakest places. I'm not foolish enough to say that I won't buck heartbreak, or be tempted to numb it, we all do that. But in between the waves of trial, and personal failures, I am trying to focus on all of the sweet, albeit small victories and joys in my life.

I visited Whitty's classroom on Monday. When I met her adorable classmates in her Special Ed class, I was delighted by their utter sweetness, but to be honest, I was still shocked. 'So this is where we are.' That's ugly and entitled, I know, but it's true.

Whitney's journey has been nothing short of mysterious and atypical. She looks 'normal', but she's not. In her 6 years, we have never had answers, just results. My husband and I have just begun settling into the breadth of this reality this past Spring.  In a relatively short period of time, our dreams of 'normal' were forced, this time entirely, to give way to 'beautiful'. There are times when the fear and pain has literally taken my breath away. But then, those times, those gifts of deeper friendships, comfort, complete victorious rejoicing...they could never have been recognized apart from the gift of pain. 

When Whitty yells across the street to our wonderful neighbor Mr. Dennis, excited and shouting, 'Pop Pop Dennis! Pop Pop Dennis! Hi! Hi!' we all experience love.  The times when she blatantly takes her brother's food, then judiciously tells on him when he rightfully takes it back, we laugh at her audaciousness. The way she sings in the car, or gives kisses and hugs, or clearly articulates her wants when ice cream is involved, it's like winning in life every time!

It is not what Whitney can do and can't do that brings the Lord glory, and our hearts delight- it is who she is. And although it's still hard, frustrating, and littered with my own failures on a daily basis, I can see the gift of God displayed in her life, and can better enter into the sufferings of those around me. I'm definitely not as gracious, patient, or humble as I need to be, but I can tell on the inside that things have been rearranged. I can love more, and love better, then I used to be able to. My soul has been stretched by this grief, yet the Lord mysteriously keeps filling it back up again with hope. Because I can love and hope, if not just slightly more, I know I can be content, even amongst fear and pain. I no longer strive to graduate myself out of this burden, but I strive to celebrate in the midst of it, to 'suffer well' as Katherine and Jay Arnold would say. And this, this is the place where His Peace nourishes and exposes the beautiful things of Heaven and life-a glory that promises to overshadow, then one day conquer, all of our wastelands and thorns. And I take comfort in the revelation that pain and suffering cannot outweigh, permanently, the resurrecting ways of God, and His celebratory love.

Fireworks, Disappointment and Holy Freedom

Earlier this very day, I wrote my first blog post in a while, on the book, Accidental Saints, and how, as Christians, we dwell from a place of fresh mercy; God to us, us to our neighbor, our neighbor to us. It's ridiculously easier on paper. I was, dare I say, happy all day about attending our July 4th Celebration, on the 29th of June, (that's how Michigan roles-don't ask). I actually told Tim, the one I love, but barely respite with, "I am so excited to see the Fireworks with you!" 

And I was, until I wasn't.

A series of unfortunate and accidental events occurred that can sometimes happen when you have a Special Needs kid. And as a result,  an hour and a half before the fireworks started, Tim and daughter were a mile away, stuck in traffic, and unable to reunite. 

I sat, purposely isolated, overwhelmingly numb to another disappointment in my life along this same, tiring thread. I was sinking, and mad, and exhausted, and starting to get hopeless. I just couldn't reel it in.  I realize that this was an extreme response on the outside, but this separation was reinforcing all of the bitter things that pain and fear attract. 

It was then, as I was still in my vortex of funk, that I felt a warm, and newly  strong 10-year old hand wrap itself,  literally, around my cold shoulder. Owen, without knowing any details, decided to remove himself from his group of friends where the cool, older kids sat, and he came, and found me, and sat right next to me behind the laughter and party of everyone else. He just held me quietly and confidently. He asked me if I saw this, and that, in the display. Picking up on my stillness, he asked me if I was okay. 

I wasn't, but then I was. 

By the end of the night, even though I knew My heart wasn't all sorted out and okay with the world yet, I actually noticed myself laughing and clapping in his presence. Owen's joy and love; you just can't resist them, hard as you try. This morning I realize that I was the lucky recipient of what theological technicians call an object lesson. 

Christ left HIS metaphorical spot where the cool kids hang, to go sit with the broken, worn out, weary people, who sit on the sidelines and try to fix their broken hearts, only to discover that mercy is ridiculously easier in letters then it is in practice. 

So, Jesus became mercy.

It is the mercy of God that is new every morning, that gives hope along our weary roads. Those worn down paths we all have. It is HIS love that enables us to forgive and receive forgiveness, as unnatural and unwarranted as it may feel. HE is the glue and joy of my communion and community. HE is living hope, and ridiculously powerful love, love so merciful that I can't resist it,  even when, despite all of my instincts to fix and control things, all I can do is surrender. 

Sister, Sister...

“Sister. She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink.” –Barbara Alpert

Whenever April 28^th rolls around, I always feel like it's my birthday, actually. Kristen is one of my life’s greatest gifts. As I contemplated what picture I should dig up for the customary Birthday Post- this one came to mind…and no joke, I had to dig 10 years back into the recesses of my yahoo.com account.

What makes this picture so funny, crazy, special… is that it wholly reminds me of Kristen, metaphorically speaking. I had just given an epidurally-blessed birth to Owen and was relishing in the ‘Thank the Lord he is finally OUT!’ stage. You have no idea. My elation, obvious, however, what you do NOT see in this picture, is my mouth full of metal braces. Kristen went home, photo-shopped the picture, replacing metal joints and wires for pearly whites, digitally framed it (hello 2006), and sent it back to me. And that is exactly what her love does to those around her- it frames us, and reminds us of where we are going, not where we are, it points us to who we are becoming, and not who we currently are.

It could be easy to assume that her life is #blessed…she still looks like a 22 year old fitness model, has four beautiful girls, a devoted & hilarious husband, a closet full of all the things, a degree, a job, lives in paradise, etc… But, truly, it’s the hidden places of her life where all the magic happens.

Excepting her kitchen floors, Kristen is not afraid of the mess. She has loved people, really messy people, in a way that has required laying her life down. Seriously- if y’all only knew how true this statement was. Moment of silence. She is devoted to her family- she is such a loving and strong Mamma. She does all of the amazing and impossible things that mamma's do, and her babies are becoming strong, confident and generous Little Women.

She is equally devoted to her friends. She shows up when it counts. I have leaned on her strength, prayers, faith, and encouragement countless times and in countless ways- especially the last few years. Like- 'I know you are busy but I need to you listen while I cry it out and then tell me its all going to be okay'. And she then listens well, and then says the things, and then I actually believe it all is going to be okay.

She doesn’t just talk the Gospel talk- she walks it. She doesn't slap cliche' on suffering, but finds Christ inside of it. She forgives others when she would rather not, she extends grace, when it’s just plain easier not to, she confess, and repents, and allows her life to be transformed. She deeply loves and trusts in Jesus, and lives an ‘I am Second' life. And all of those around her see this, and know this, and experience the benefits of her love.

She obsessively watches The Voice, plays Christmas Music in mid-October, cooks a mean Turkey, keeps Red Bull in business, can eat a caramel apple like Mr. Peepers from SNL (a reference you probably shouldn't google), lives for Fall candles and open windows, and manages to keep life as fun and as memorable as a rich life should be. 

So, for all of the ways you have made me laugh this year, the ways you have pulled me out of my head, and for your friendship, words of life, and truth- I love you, Sissy. Happy Birthday.