Grace of God

                I write this now, with my grown daughter laying in the next room, her childhood room.  It is the day after Christmas and she is home to visit.  She’s newly married herself and expecting her first child.  She is so beautiful and has grown into such a wonderful woman, thanks to the grace of God Who did the larger part in her rearing.  I am so grateful that I found the Lord and only wish I had sooner.  She was nearly seven before I cried out to Him one night asking Him to save us both from the destruction that was wreaking havoc on our lives. 

                I was so young when I had her.  Only seventeen and I had no idea how to be a mother.  I’d grown up in a home with a mentally ill and abusive mother and an absent father.  I didn’t want to be a child anymore because it was too painful, so on a quest to enter adulthood and begin my own life, I married the first guy I thought I was in love with.  We ran off to another state and shortly after we eloped I became pregnant.  Not only did I not know how to be a mother, I didn’t know how to be a wife and the marriage disintegrated before Sarah was born.  I was too far along to have an abortion.  I know that sounds horrible but it’s the plain truth.  That’s where I was in my life.  Scared, confused and totally without a savior.  I couldn’t go back home so I tried to do things by myself, get a job, make a life for my daughter, but it wasn’t long before the pressures wore me down.  I was lonely and still immature, still in a teen-age frame of mind.  I had never been healed and I had nothing to offer Sarah.  Though I loved her, I wasn’t healthy and I was still a child myself in many ways.  Before long, I met some friends at work that I began partying with, leaving Sarah with baby-sitters.  I hate even thinking about that time.  It makes me feel so ashamed.  Things got even worse and I began using drugs.  Of course, my baby suffered many of the consequences.   We were moving all the time, because we were always getting evicted.  Strange men were coming in and out of our house.  There aren’t even words to describe how badly I was failing.  I don’t know if I cooked one meal for my child in those seven years.  I don’t know how she survived.  So many things are a blur.

                I don’t know what would have happened if God hadn’t intervened.  I won’t go into the details about what brought the CPS worker to my door but it was the day that changed our lives.  This woman shared with me her faith because she saw that I was hungry.  I was starving.  Literally and spiritually.  I was at the end of myself and had been waiting for someone to introduce something to me that could save me from myself.  Looking back, I’ve realized that she probably was breaking rules by sharing her faith with me.

                 I sobbed as she explained to me that Jesus had died for my sins and that He wanted me to allow Him into my life.  At my dirty kitchen table, I said the sinner’s prayer.  God performed a miracle on me that night and I was able to begin the process of turning my life around.  It was a long road back to any semblance of a normal life but with God by my side we got there.

                Then I met John and we took our time getting to know each other.  He was a Christian as well and we made a commitment to keep God at the center of our relationship.  Seventeen years later we are still doing that.  He never looked at who I used to be.  He always saw the new me and this was an example of God’s love for me as well.  He has been a father to Sarah in every sense of the word and she would say she’s lucky to have him in her life.

                I’ve prayed and interceded for Sarah since that day I was born again.  She was born into confusion but the Lord had a plan for her.  I know beyond a doubt that He did.  He watched over her when her own mother would not and kept her safe during all those years of chaos.  I never have regretted having her.  Not once.  I would never take that back. 

                But I’m so glad it is different for Sarah.  She loves the Lord first which enables her to love her husband and the baby yet to be born.  She knows who she is in Christ as a woman, a daughter and a mother.  I get to watch my baby raise her own babies the right way.  And I’m now a mother who can help her in her own journey through motherhood.  We grew up together in a way and today we share the same loving Father.  His grace is all together amazing.

Cousins

                Grady and Max were cousins, born to sisters, only two weeks apart.  They were two peas in a pod - at first.  Their mothers, both single, lived together in a tiny, ramshackle house on the edge of a small town.  The women had shared pregnancy symptoms and then similar labors.  The boys both had their mothers white blonde hair and green eyes.  They shared not only a room, but a crib for the first six months of their lives.  When they learned to jabber, they would jabber at each other and people were constantly asking if they were twins, not knowing whose mother was whose.  They got along like brothers, but did not fight like brothers. If one wanted, a toy, the other, was always willing to share.  Tantrums were rare and it was a peaceful household.  Maybe too peaceful.  By two, certain signs began to illuminate a major difference in the boys, but nothing was spoken of that which would soon become obvious.  These boys were quiet, not much for rumble tumble play, and were stuck to each other like glue, speaking to each other in some sort of code that not even their mothers were able to decipher.

                When they entered kindergarten it was only one month into the school year and both sisters were summoned separately for a meeting with the teacher.  The teacher spoke to Grady’s mother, of how impressed she was with this boy, said that he showed outstanding potential and in her humble opinion, should be moved immediately to the first grade - of course after some testing.  The teacher then, at a later time, sat down Max’s mother.  She said he was very sweet, he seemed to want to learn but that in her humble opinion, he should not yet be in kindergarten - of course, they could decide this after further testing. 

                Max was soon after placed into special education classes and Grady, sad to leave Max behind, went on to the first grade.  Max was diagnosed with mental retardation and by fourth grade, Grady had been administered IQ tests, which marked him at a genius level.  He was placed in certain high school classes by the sixth grade, while Max could barely read.  And yet, the two felt no division, or rather, allowed no division to separate them.  After school, they would spend time together, doing normal boy things. They’d work on tree houses or science projects.  Grady seemed to be the gentle leader of the two, and yet what no one understood was that Grady felt more challenged and more stimulated when with his cousin that with anyone at his school, even those in the accelerated classes.  Grady felt a strange commonality with Max that went beyond blood.  The sisters would stay up talking late into the night, both worrying that Grady may be spending too much time with Max, not wanting him to be held back in any way.  But they didn’t quite feel it right to discourage the relationship, either. 

                The boys went down different paths, but continued their brotherly bond.  Although, Grady graduated high school early before Max had even learned to write his name and went to college a couple of towns away, he came back every weekend to spend time with his family.  He was serious about his work but lacked a social life.  He poured most all of himself into his studies.  His special interest was in mathematics, which he found captivating.  He had always had the ability to solve complex problems in a short period of time but by the end of his freshman year at college, had proved a theorem, which propelled him into honor and recognition in the academic realm.  He had a bright future ahead of him. While he was busy performing extensive theoretical research in Algebraic Number Theory, he was being courted by Harvard, Princeton and Duke.  But something was missing

                One visit home from college, he was introduced to something far more captivating than numbers.  Max had been attending church with an old woman from down the street, and had come to know and accept the Lord.  He was anxious to share his salvation with his cousin.  Somehow Grady knew, if his cousin, who did not seem to have a sin bone in his body, was in need of a savior, how much more was he.  He was led in the sinner’s prayer that night by his cousin Max, who had the intelligence of a five year old.  When Grady returned to college, he joined a Bible study and became passionate for Jesus.  When he would come home, he and Max would talk in their way, about God and Grady somehow knew that their level of understanding on this was the same.   One of them brilliant by the world’s standards, the other clearly not, yet both equally hungry to understand their new Father’s mysterious ways. 

                People thought Max strange because he was not intelligent enough to connect with others.  They thought Grady strange because he was so intelligent that he neither could connect with others.  But they were connected together by the Lord and then drawn to Him as co-heirs and as brothers.  




On a side note:  Kristin Lamb wrote a great article, which had me laughing out loud.  It's called "Top Ten Reasons To Become a Writer.  I think my favorite was number 10.  Has anyone read her book, Are You There Blog, It's Me Writer?  I have not yet, but intend to.   

Cookie Cutter Houses

 Two cookie-cutter houses sit side by side, in a suburb, somewhere in America.  Identical from the outside, both boasting manicured lawns and 2011 minivans.  Each home belonging to a family of five, consisting of a hardworking dad, a stay-at-home mom and three small children. 

What, then, is the difference between 102 and 104 Fifth Street, besides the numbers?  Upon entering each home, a visitor would see in both, immaculately housekeeping, furnishings reminiscent of Better Homes and Garden, and children at play.  They might see Patty or Sherry, the woman of these homes, cooking dinner for their families, folding laundry or picking up the endless slew of toys all over the house.  They might see them on the phone to each other, though they could just as easily take the children outside, to their backyards which are not separated by fence and chat while the kids play on the playground set the families happily share.  This would not be unusual.  Patty and Sherry are best friends, and this scene occurs often. 

But the woman are different, and despite the outward similarities of their houses and lives, so are their homes.  If a visitor were to stay for an evening, much more would be observed than is obvious.  Let’s stroll for a moment into each of their lives:

Entering Patty’s house, we notice, on a plaque, in the entryway, the verse, “As for me and my house, I will serve the Lord.”  Praise music can be heard on the stereo, as Patty hums along, hand washing dishes.  The children at times, sit quietly playing together. Other moments they rowdily race down the hall.  Patty calmly tells her children to wind down, daddy’s coming home soon.  Amazingly, they obey her.  When daddy does come home, he’s greeted with a kiss, and dinner is placed on the table, for the entire family to sit down at together and enjoy.  The meal is commenced with a prayer, and they then share stories about their day.  It’s a peaceful evening, ended with a reading from the Bible.

Sherry’s house is sadly different.  When we enter this home, though it appears that everything‘s in order, if we stay a while and pay attention, we will notice that Sherry strives.  She is tired.  And lonely.  Her kids bicker and she, most days, wants to scream.  When she’s finally done with her daily duties which seem never ending, she might flip through that Better Homes and Garden magazine, desperately looking for more ways to “keep up with the Jones’. When her husband comes home, he also is weary.  He barely looks at his family, before he plops in front of the television, so he can tune out from the responsibilities he secretly feels he cannot bear.  When the kids are finally threatened into bed at the end of the night, Sherry goes online, and wishes for a connection with her husband.

Sherry’s never admitted to Patty that she feels not good enough, that her strength is waning and she feels that this was not the life she signed up for.  She wonders why Patty always seems to have a peace about her, why Patty never complains about how hard it is to raise children, why Patty’s husband always plays with his kids outside, and her’s refuses to even tuck their kids in at night. 

If Sherry were to talk with Patty about these things, she’d find that Patty is not without her own struggles.  However, Patty has a hope and strength that comes from somewhere outside of  herself.  On her own, Patty would strive as well.  Yes, there are hard days where things don’t go well, and Patty does not have a cheerful heart.  But because Patty knows the Lord, she takes all these things to God.  He renews her strength, saying “Do not strive, child.  My strength is sufficient for you.”  Patty submitted herself long ago, to the Lord, and he has His hand on her life and on her home.  Her life is not always a bowl of cherries, but that’s okay.  She praises God during the rough times, too.  And He blesses her. 

Maybe someday, Sherry will be bold enough to ask Patty what that difference is, she sees in her. 

But maybe someday, God will put on Patty’s heart a desire to share these truths with Sherry without being asked.   Maybe Patty will put her fear aside and witness to Sherry, not waiting for her friend to approach her first. 

 Maybe…. He already has.  

Concentration

                Concentrate, she told herself.  Sitting at her laptop, her fingers poised yet nothing at all came to mind.  She hadn’t written in weeks, was now experiencing for the first time, writer’s block.  She’d always been able to write at will.  She loved to write.  What was going on with her?  She’d tried everything; writing at different times, giving herself mock assignments, even planning rewards if she typed at least a few sentences.  But nothing was working.  She’d type those few sentences, but then read them, realize they amounted to nothing worthwhile, and delete them. 

                And the writer’s block was leading to another type of block.  An emotional block.  She realized that even when not at her computer, she’d find herself, staring off into space, unable to gain the energy toward anything productive.  She was definitely in a rut.  And she didn’t know how to get out of it.

                 At least, she was still trying despite the fact that by this point she felt like completely giving up, throwing her laptop away, actually, for all the frustration it was now producing.  That was the only thing it was producing.    This inability to release what was inside her, unidentifiable at this point, had her in a zombie state.  Life was going on without her participation, her experiencing of it.  In the past, she had possessed a fine ability to keenly observe the people and things around her, consistently taking mental notes of interesting or funny things she saw or heard to use later in her writing. Poetically she could describe the mundane.  Even stuck in traffic she could be inspired by metaphoric thoughts.

                  And then one day, it was just gone.  She had nothing.  She didn’t realize it at first, continued on with her normal routine, but then suddenly felt that lack.  Realized, that nothing was standing out to her anymore, nothing mattered.  Now every time she sat down to write, she’d inevitably only write about the inability to write, about the dreaded writer’s block.

                 Like she’d done yesterday and the day before, she finally closed her laptop in frustration.  She left her desk and went instead to the couch, where she laid down.  She closed her eyes, thinking about how writing was always what had gotten her by.  She’d started in junior high, recording in a journal the details of her life, and from there, the writing had taken on a life of her own.  She’d begun to create stories, almost as therapy, the words weaving a comfort as she read and reread them.  And she’d become skilled, written papers in college that had been praised, so then gained confidence to enter contests, which she often won.  It was her life.  What kept her going.  Yes, she had a job, friends, a social life, but none of it had mattered to her as much as her writing.  What would she do without it?  It seemed she couldn’t feel without it, or maybe couldn’t process her feelings. 

                Ashley sat up then, working out exactly what it was she just had realized.  Her brow furrowed as this new thought hit her.  She wasn’t in an emotional block because of the writer’s block.  It was the other way around.  She couldn’t write because she wasn’t feeling.  She’d shut down; pent it up.  This epiphany, so simple, forced her to her feet.  She walked back to her desk, very slowly and deliberately opened up her laptop again.  She needed to write about what had happened.  The thing she hadn’t been facing, dealing with.  The thing, she’d been pushing out of her mind for so long, she’d come to believe it might one day go away.  And maybe it almost had, these last weeks but so had everything else, including her writing.  She had to get rid of it, even if that meant putting it on paper, seeing it in print, giving truth to it and making it real.  She hadn’t even known she’d been afraid to do that, but now saw that it had been exactly that.  Fear.  So now, she put her head down, preparing. But not thinking.  In fact, not concentrating.  Not thinking ahead  just mentally encouraging herself to go ahead and look up, begin the process.  And when she did, it began to flow.  She let go of concentration, of trying to make sense out of sentences, of analyzing her topic, she just gave it up to the paper, her fingers gaining speed, to catch up with her now opened mind.  She didn’t let herself stop because she knew there would be the temptation to go back and read what she’d written, and she wasn’t ready to do that yet.  So she just wrote and wrote, everything that came to mind, no matter how horrible or scary the thought was.  She’d kept it in too long, and when it had threatened to rise up, in order to tune it out, she’d tuned out everything else.  So now out it came.  The evening turned to night and she stopped only to flick her lamp on, but then returned her hands to the keyboard.  

                Finally, spent, near the middle of the night, she’d written it all.  She’d come to closure.  Done now, she wiped her eyes.  She hadn’t even been aware of the tears as she’d been writing.

                 She still did not read it.  But she printed it.  The fifteen single spaced pages spewed out of the printer, somewhat ominous.  She picked them up, in order, but face down.  She didn’t want to read it.  She knew what she had written.  Not knowing yet what she would do with this document, she placed it under her laptop and got ready for bed.  Already, she felt lighter, new again.  She slept peacefully, not afraid of her own thoughts this night.  And when she woke in the morning she knew what she was to do.  She retrieved the document from underneath her laptop and still not looking at the words folded it in two.  She then walked to her hall closet where she kept her envelopes.  She carefully placed her writing inside one and then sealed it.  She walked back to her desk, pulled from the drawer a black permanent marker and wrote three letters on the envelope.

 It would go to who it belonged to; God.  And she would never read it.  She would delete it, because now it was His.  She’d been released.  So now she could concentrate on moving forward. 

Charade

                Athena woke, surveying her surroundings, taking a moment to recall where she was, the legs of her mind stumbling across last night’s events.  Mornings were always like this; peppered with confusion.  Many times she was hung over or even still drunk, trying to gauge if she was still at some party or possibly in the bed of a strange man. 

                But it came to her now.  She sat up, an umbrella of fear forming above her.  She was in a hospital in a very comfortable room.  Rather, it wasn’t so much a hospital as a spa for celebrities and the room was more than comfortable; it was plush.

                She’d been at a premier last night and had passed out . She remembered falling.   Wisely, they’d thought to bring her here, where she might have a few days before the media tracked her down.                              

                And the press were experts at tracking down.  She’d been in the spotlight, since she was five when her mother had found her an agent.  Her career had taken off immediately, and she quickly became America’s sweetheart.  Now at twenty-nine, she was still in the spotlight, but recently, the media had begun to turn on her, reporting dirty truths and untruths alike.  Recently divorced for the second time, the press now picked her apart.  And it was as though they had access to a personal diary.

                 But she kept no diary, living day to day with not much contemplation or analysis, her life a blur of movies, interviews, the occasional Broadway production, and much partying.

                She shook her head.  She didn’t want to be thinking about these things.  Thankfully, she was rescued by a nurse entering the room only to announce that Athena was merely suffering exhaustion but that she was welcome to stay as long as she’d like.  Athena nodded, then drifted back to sleep, thinking some rest wouldn’t hurt, and that she did have a break between films. 

                Those few days of rest turned into weeks, as she found that she didn’t want to return to the chaos of her life.  This was the first time she’d really had alone time, and though her discoveries hurt, she’d begun to recognize that she needed them.

                  No one came to visit and she now realized that she had no true friends.  She understood that she herself had been fickle, switching friends to match each next cast.  It had been the same for them.  Fair-weather friends who‘d enjoyed her company for as long as was convenient but then could toss her aside as easily as she could them. 

                She was almost thirty, with yes, a successful career but no real relationships.  She was afraid of living the rest of her life this way, with no actual grasp on who she was.  She’d grown up, not being her own person, putting on whatever mask the cameras wanted.  Who was she?  Who was her true self?  She’d been molding herself into other’s ideals for so long, she’d never developed a genuine personality.  She didn’t even know what she found important.  She didn’t know if even her craft was important to her, or if she’d just never thought about a life without it.  She was good, very good, at acting, but it had melted into her, stealing whoever she might have been.  Now she grieved for that which she’d lost, or rather, never had.   And a fear of returning to play the role of someone she was now certain she was never meant to be kept her inside what she’d found to be a haven.

                And so, through her solitude, she one night whispered in the darkness to no one that she knew, asking if somehow she could be restored, if she might find out who she was meant to be.  Every night she did this, until one night she heard a response from a still, small voice.

                 “You are my daughter.  That is who you were made to be.” 

                Athena recognized the voice as if she’d been waiting to hear it all her life.  It was God. The God, she’d heard of many times, in letters from fans and critics alike, letters which she’d thrown away, not wanting to be preached at, but letters that sometimes haunted her in sober times with both their conviction and their promise of purpose.  Had she been seeking and not known it?  Had He been seeking her?  Was He answering a question she hadn’t even known she was asking?  Or was He her answer?  

Call on Me

When he finally came to, he found himself on the dirty floor, panting.  With all the strength he could muster, he crawled to the phone, which was buried under a pile of reeking laundry covered in food crumbs. He scanned the room, for the first time viewing the disgrace he was living in. He knew there was an eviction notice on his door, his electricity was one day from being turned off and the entire span of the small studio apartment he called home was covered in filth.  He let his head fall to the floor in defeat.  Then, summoning his energy, he picked up the receiver.  He pushed the speed dial of his dealer.  No answer.  He’d never been this far gone before.  Never run out and felt this close to death.  Where was Eddie?  He needed him.  A voice pushed through his clouded mind, saying, “That’s not who you need.”

               

                Yeah, he thought.  I’ll call Kyla.  She’ll have some she can spare. He picked up the phone again but as he went to dial he heard, “Matt?”  Crap, it was his sister.  He couldn’t talk to her right now. 

“Matt, are you there?”

“Yeah,” his voice croaked. 

“Matt, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  I’ll call you back.” 

“You sound really bad.  I’m coming over.” 

“No” he protested but she’d already hung up.  He knew she knew.  She’d been trying to get him to go into a program for months now but he wasn’t ready.  He needed to talk to a friend.  Someone who would understand.  Then he’d feel better.  Maybe he could just hang out with someone from his crowd.  Just being around them might lift his spirits, he didn’t even have to use.  Yes, he would have someone come pick him up before his sister got here, before she started in on her lecturing.   He called Eddie again but still no answer.  Then he called his girlfriend, Kyla.  She picked up on the first ring.  “Hey, Baby.” she said, her voice high-pitched.  He knew she was loaded.

“Kyla, can you come get me?” 

“Yeah, we can go to the party at Jim’s.” 

“No. Can we just hang out? I’m not feeling so great, but I need to try to get through it this time.  If I can.  I have a job interview in a couple of days and I’m supposed to get my daughter this weekend for a supervised visit.  I blew it off last time,” his voice sounded weak and unconvincing, even to him.

“Oh, babe.  Um, yeah.”  Her hesitation was clear.  “Why don’t I call you then when I get back from the party?  Love you,” and then she hung up. 

Why was this happening?  Every time he needed them, they weren’t there.  They were there when the party was at his house, when there was fun to be had, but they didn’t seem to care about helping him get his life in order.  He remembered when his friend, Carl had quit using drugs a couple of months ago.  Matt had intended to call him, see how he was doing but had kept pushing it aside.  He’d kind of looked at it like Carl just didn’t know how to have a good time anymore. 

 He’d never intended for his life to turn out like this.  Had just been experiencing a lonely patch after the divorce.  He was only twenty-eight.  He’d started just going to the bar after work with a buddy.  Then partying more and meeting really cool people.  Or so he thought.  They seemed to have the life.  They slept in every day, didn’t worry about responsibility.  How they took care of business and paid bills, he didn’t know, but it sure had seemed they were living large.  And then he met Kyla.  She was so free-spirited.  She’d gotten him to loosen up, have a little fun himself.  He’d never realized it would spiral out of control.  He thought he could handle it.  But now here he lay, shaking on the floor for a fix, not one of his friends willing to help him out.  He closed his eyes; he’d figure it out.

……

“Matt?”  His sister’s voice rang in his ears like the voice of an angel and he hung to a hope that there might be something that could save him.

My History

When I was young I heard You say my name,

Easily I answered and so You spoke,

I talked and walked with you until I woke.

I heard You say You came to heal the lame

When I was young I knew not yet of shame,

feared not Your zeal wrapped as in a cloak,*

saw not the day, Your anger I’d provoke,

longed earnestly that I, You would inflame.

And then somehow, I forgot my first love,

Your promises eluded me, I thought,

Until desperate, searching, I looked above,

Read Your word, found that for me You had fought,

You sent Your peace, resting like a dove,

Like a lover, You chased, and I was caught.

*Isaiah 59:17