Are You Struggling and Can’t See the End?

“You just don’t understand!  I'm not the schooly type.  I'm the cowboy type, Mom.”

My son was nine. We had worked phonics and spelling rules, grueling work for my son battling with dyslexia. Fingers of sunlight filtered through the French doors of our classroom and beckoned my son to come and play. 

I scrutinized the splash of light across his laboring pencil, and his head shot upward, freckled nose following the light like a pointer-beagle targeting a coon. Exasperation darkened his face. He squared his slim shoulders and shook his silky, blond bangs. 

“Can I go out and play, Mom?” At the clear response written on my stoic face, he tried harder. “You just don’t understand!  I'm not the schooly type.  I'm the cowboy type, Mom.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, shook my head, and drank in his earnest eyes. Didn’t this child sleep in six-guns and boots? What would I ever do with this boy? 

Most days this would not have been funny. My heart cried for my son who had to work hard to grasp academics. He was quite accomplished at anything hands-on, and his verbal skills were high. But written words and spelling dodged him at every turn. Obscure, they were burrs under his saddle, trying to steal the glory of each and every day. I can’t remember, but knowing my son and his ability to out-sell a charlatan, I probably allowed him to escape outdoors.

The fruit of adversity is the accomplishment of a goal which dangles, elusively, just out of our grasp… But its fruit is sweeter than any other when breakthrough snaps it from the branch.

Seven years later on a nippy, December morning, this same son strode into the Department of Public Safety to take his written driver’s exam. More than six feet tall, he towered above me. I smiled when I spied his polished-to-a-shine western boots, and they reminded me of a younger cowboy.

I wrangled with what seemed like abandonment when I pivoted to leave him— alone—for his first all-important written exam. Wasn’t this the son who grew sick and sleepless at the thought of test taking?

The driver's test was the first big hurdle into the adult world, and my anxiety level was as high for myself as it was for him. I winked at him and squeezed his nervous hand.

 "You'll do fine. I'll be praying for you..."

An hour later, I returned. His face was solemn as his eyes met mine from his seat across the room, and my heart lurched. Was this the face of good news? Slowly, his features stretched into a relaxed smile, and he stood and stepped the distance between us. Reaching my side, he was breathless with excitement. 

“I passed.”

All the years of letters dancing on a page for my son flashed before my eyes. His tears and endless ways of trying to get out of schoolwork flooded my memories. I could shut my eyes and still hear the droning of the cassette recorder the past weeks—playing the driver’s handbook over and over into the night. This is a day I will hold in my heart forever. A milestone, born of struggle—attained. We’d found a learning style that worked.

The fruit of adversity is the accomplishment of a goal which dangles, elusively, just out of our grasp… But its fruit is sweeter than any other when breakthrough snaps it from the branch.

What adversity do you face this day?  How are you coping in the middle? Or, are you at the end of your long struggle and have a word of hope for us?

When we don't know where to go, His whispers lead us...

Remedy for Burnout: Meditate/ Pour/ Meditate Some More

A sparkling glass pitcher. Perfect. I filled it with ice and water. The heavy cut glass would reflect the candlelight on my table, and make a lovely accent to dinner. After all, how often did special occasions pull us away from plastic divided plates and sippy cups? 

Leaving the kitchen to dress for dinner, I returned to find a puddle. On the counter near the pitcher was a pool of water. Must have missed it when cleaning. I grabbed a towel and soaked up the spill.

Mary meditated on Jesus, and as long as she did, she was filled. Martha stewed, her energies pouring from her faster than she could stop their leak. Both women beautiful, but one filled. One at peace.

The smell of pot roast reminded me it was time to take it out of the oven. I carefully arranged it on a platter and added onions, bite-sized potatoes, and carrots. I spun around to grab the pitcher. There it was, another drippy mess on the counter. Certainly, my prized pitcher wasn’t leaking? I lifted it high for examination. Nothing.

I toweled up the water, and this time stood guard. Ever so slowly, water drained from the pitcher. I dumped the contents and brought it to the light. The smallest of hair-line fractures zigzagged the glass. How could something so heavy crack and leak?

Whether we pour or leak, we need to be filled and refilled with His power. Be carried by the sweeping current of His Holy Spirit. Be refreshed. 
Meditate, pour, then meditate some more.

I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. On the outside it was still lovely. But what purpose would it serve? A receptacle for silk flowers? I scratched the idea and threw it in the can. I hate throwing things away. It called me back. I hovered over the trash can, and a lesson bloomed in my heart. A pitcher is meant to be poured and refilled. If it cannot hold substance, it has no purpose.

The story of Mary and Martha came to mind. Mary meditated on Jesus, and as long as she did, she was filled. Martha stewed, her energies pouring from her faster than she could stop their leak. Both women beautiful, but one filled. One at peace.

Meditation. The Hebrew word meaning to breathe. To breathe is to have life. Without life, we run dry. An answer to burnout? Meditate on your Redeemer. Fill yourself with His rich and satisfying Word; He is the Word who has come to dwell with us. 

And, flow where The River goes. Whether we pour or leak, we need to be filled and refilled with His power. Be carried by the sweeping current of His Holy Spirit. Be refreshed. 

Meditate. Pour out to others. Then meditate some more.

“O God, You are my God, and earnestly will I seek You; my inner self thirsts for You, my flesh longs and is faint for You, in a dry and weary land where no water is… My whole being shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; and my mouth shall praise You with joyful lips when I remember You upon my bed and meditate on You in the night watches. For You have been my help, and in the shadow of Your wings will I rejoice. My whole being follows hard after You and clings closely to You; Your right hand upholds me.” (Psalm 63:1, 5-7 Amplified)

*The preceding story, Remedy for Burnout, was written as I journeyed through burnout as a homeschooling mom. The letter R-Remember to Rest, E-Exercise What?, M-Meditate/Pour/Meditate Some More. Stay tuned for E-D-Y.* 

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.

Popcorn Memories

One night, a few years ago now, my body as always longed for rest, but the alarm jolted me awake at midnight's blue, when the kids would be fast asleep. What?!? Then I remembered. I slipped from beneath flannel sheets and electric blanket into the still cold of our ancient house, looking back with longing at my soft pillow. The century-old stairs creaked as I scaled them in cloak of darkness, a tight fist about a one-dollar bill. I tiptoed through the upstairs maze, my feet dodging dressers, cast-aside shoes, and prickly, little carpet tacks at every portal. As I shivered, I smiled to myself; my mission would soon be accomplished. A baby tooth awaited me in a snack-sized Ziploc tucked under my second-born's pillow.

Carefully, carefully, I inched toward Jarred's bunk.  Five feet… Four feet… Three feet away from his wee, slumbering snore... Faint moonlight softened his little face into a deceiving sweetness. Two feet… I reached out… And the world plunged from its axis! My legs went sprawling in mid-air; the breath I’d been holding burst into a wild, squeal of terror. The room shifted, rocked, rolled, and I landed in a bruising heap among more than a thousand glass marbles. Looking up at the ceiling, I knew with icy certainty— my favorite red-haired mischief-maker had booby-trapped the tooth fairy! Every scene from The Ransom of Red Chief went flying through my head, as I turned red with fury.

That night carried the real potential to send me over the proverbial edge, though I forgave my repentant son, toothless grin and all. The next day, black-and-blue and sleep deprived, I needed a vacation, but there was no money for such a luxury. I calculated the cost of a sitter for the day and decided I was worth it, but none were available. Randy will watch the kids this evening, and I can escape. But events conspired against me, and of course, he had to work late.

I was stuck. Stuck! Stuck! Stuck! And in the midst of my stomping about with no glamorous place to hide from this exasperating day, memories began skipping through my brain like popcorn. Pop! Pop! Pop!

POP! The time my creative toddlers destroyed their room. No, I really mean destroyed. As in every toy out, every stitch of clothing strewn. Have you ever stood at the door to that room? Well, I knew they couldn't clean up their mess alone – but I simply took one look, turned and walked away, shaking my head like a lunatic and babbling, "Just – clean it up." When I returned, they had cleaned it all right. Around the baseboards in perfect rows marched a baseball, a shoe, a Big Bird bank, a sock, a soldier, another shoe, baby lotion, a Fisher-Price tape player, another sock, and on, and on, all the way around the room. I sipped my iced tea and studied the two-man clean-up crew, now chasing their squealing younger sister.

POP! The morning my son, Joshua, decided to take down the chain link fence. I had never analyzed how a chain link fence is put together, much less taken down, but my son visualized a fort built from that section of fencing. Not only did he dismantle the section screw by screw, he also took the garden shears and cut an ingenious doorway through the middle of it. Would you think dull garden shears could cut through chain? I stared at the gaping hole, thinking, My head is actually going to explode this time. I had two choices: I could have an aneurysm, or not. Making the obvious choice, I looked at my son and said – teeth clenched – voice low, "Put. It. Back." By sunset that evening, the section was back in place, the center bound together with wire like a great incision.

I learned from each catastrophe. When did each shenanigan, my children pulled, transition in my mind to an endearing memory? Finally, I sat wilting on the back stoop, watching my kids romping in the yard, and with memories came bubbles of laughter.

I sipped my iced tea and reflected on my life with children. Hadn't God been good to me, after my first child was stillborn? Hadn't He whispered to me that I would have children? Me. The mom of six blessings. My heart softened. Despite my annoyance, He refreshed me. From that night forward, the tooth fairy never again retrieved teeth from under children's pillows—making the exchange instead at the downstairs' bookcase.

But I learned that survival is about clinging to God’s merciful gift of humor, gracing me with the perspective to laugh at, and occasionally even with, my children's hoodlum ways. Sometimes a restorative vacation is just a step backwards into a few blessed minutes of hysterical laughter. 

So, pop back in time, and tell me your funny. When did humor help you survive?

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new 

beginnings we cherish each time we 

experience God.  

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.

When You're Tempted to Quit

Twelve months had passed since God gave my husband and me a beautiful vision of having a daughter from South Korea. The faith months, of believing what seemed impossible, were marked by milestones, each a tender expression of the Shepherd’s leading. I had lost a baby girl at birth five years earlier, but God had another daughter for me, whom I’d name Megan.  On the Fourth of July, I cross-stitched her name beneath a rosette of pink flowers and framed the needlework for the nursery we’d soon create.

Every week for two months I had eagerly asked husband; “Can we put the nursery together?” 

And each week, he’d said, “It’s not time, Ann.  Let’s wait.”

But on this Fourth of July 1986, he didn’t balk.  He agreed that the next morning, we would put our daughter’s baby bed together and prepare her room, though we didn’t have a clue how we’d financially adopt her. 

The next morning, husband was outdoors searching for hardware to use on the crib.  I was in the nursery ironing little girl clothes, lovingly crafted for our first daughter, who never got to wear them.  A voice planted seeds of doubt in my heart.  The voice was cruel.  It said; “You’re a fool.  This isn’t God.  You made it up because you want a daughter so much.  These little pink things your ironing?  They’ll never be worn by a child in your arms.”

Panic galloped through my heart.  I shook and fought tears.  The thought raced through my head that I was unbalanced.  And then I crumbled, telling God I was sorry, and that I’d go to everyone I’d told and tell them I had conjured the whole idea of adoption from a warped imagination.

I snatched a Living Bible from the bedside table and flung it open, begging God to give me a word of comfort.  My eyes fell to a scripture about preparing a signboard for a child before knowing the child was on its way.   Then my eyes riveted on the cross-stitched sampler I’d created.  My pulse slowed; my mind cleared. 

“No,” I said aloud to the voice.  “God gave me vision for this daughter.”  Not once had adoption crossed my natural mind in the years prior.  This was God’s story to write.

Three weeks later the phone rang.  I dried my hands on a dishtowel, as my two young sons flew by dressed as superheroes.  Our social worker was on the phone.  Her pleasant voice pulsated joy as she said, “Ann, congratulations! You have a daughter.”

I slid to the kitchen floor, receiver in hand, knees weak.  “How old is she?”  I asked, my heart brimming with hope.  Our youngest son was turning two.  The agency had told us our daughter would at least be younger than our youngest.  My heart braced to be told she was more than a year old.  Perhaps eighteen months?

“Oh, Ann, she’s just a newborn,” the lady replied.  “Isn’t God good?”

“Wh—what?  Wh--when?” I stuttered.  “When was she born?”

“She was born on the fifth day of July, Ann—just three weeks ago.”

On July fifth of this year, Megan will be twenty-six years old.  What a blessing she has been to our lives.  How many adoptive parents have the privilege of knowing exactly what they were doing the date their child was born?  What if I’d quit?  I was so close.  What if I hadn’t reached for the Word of God?  The day our daughter was born was the very day the enemy launched his most brutal attack on my mind.

You and I are not so different; we are clay.  Are you listening to the voice of your enemy telling you to quit your dream—the dream planted in your heart by Almighty God?  Are you second guessing whether something you have believed was ever from God at all?  Dreams and visions take all shapes.  If you know yours was born of God, don’t give up!  He will write your story.