He Isn't Safe

Like a dog kicked by his master, I curled into a protective ball licking my wounds and keeping myself safe. There was a subtle fear, a lack of trust, that turned into a defensive barrier that separated me from God. 

This post-adoption year was hard. 

Adding a child is never easy, but this has little to do with Bo or his transition to our family. We had our moments and crazy stress, but he has been worth every second of the adventure. For the most part, I am amazed by how easy it was to assimilate him into our family.

I'm talking about the spiritual assault that followed his adoption and knocked me flat. 

I've heard of post-adoption depression which is similar to postpartum depression, something in which I am well versed. I don't know if that's what I had, or not. With my illness in country and subsequent hospitalization upon our return home, I suppose I was ripe for it. I've mentioned before feeling like I may have had some PTSD from the experience.

I just never felt like I regained my spiritual or emotional footing. 

God felt very, very far away. 

I felt isolated. Having two kids with special needs, one with some pretty bizarre behavior, further separated us from other families. I didn't know what to do with him at church. He didn't really fit into any classroom situation and I didn't really know him well enough to know what supports he needed. It seemed like a lot of effort to get everyone ready for church only to have to step out of the service with him. 

So, I just stopped going. 

As the lack of trust intensified, confusion set in. My attention span waned and reading Scripture became a chore for which I couldn't muster energy. My prayers continued, but I felt unheard. 

Everything was hard. I felt raw initially, reacting to everything, and later numb, responding to nothing. While I had visits to clarity, deep fog was my address and I had no idea how to move. 

Bitterness danced at my heart's door. My softness toward my savior disappeared beneath a crusty layer. I was suspicious of those who were plunging ahead in the faith, convinced they didn't fully know what they were doing. 

Several posted on Facebook the lyrics to "Oceans" by Hillsong United:

And I remember thinking in my arrogance, "You have no idea what you're singing. Do you really want to go deeper than your feet could ever wander?!? Are you willing to go without a full night's sleep two hundred thirty-seven nights in a row? What if, instead of stronger faith, you're left without a faith, at all?" 

Toward the end of the year, I recognized some pretty significant lies I'd been believing, which set me on the path to healing. I uncurled from my ball and reviewed the year through fresh eyes. I was able to really see His faithfulness in all of it, even though He felt hidden from me at the time. 

The fog lifted and clarity is returning. I can trust Him. I know this. I'm reminded of my favorite quote about Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe:

Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good.

It turns out that the song with the haunting tune and the lyrics that bugged me so much, was right, after all. My faith has been made stronger and I can sing that song with open arms, willing again to go deeper than my feet would ever wander. 

Who I'm Meant To Be

Picture a dark, vacuous room with me sitting in a single chair in the middle and a lone light bulb hanging over my head. Before me, out of my vision, is a deep, accusing voice listing every wrong thing I've ever done. As the voice drones on, I am filled with the memory of every moment of every sin. This used to be what I saw when I thought of the judgment seat of Christ, but not anymore. 

Now I envision being presented with a picture of the person I was meant to be. Not a two-dimensional photo, but more of a real-time introduction to the actual woman, herself, with a complete and instantaneous knowledge of who she really is. In an instant, I will know how woefully I fall short. 

In the playback of my life, I believe there will be moments, glorious moments, where I got it right, if only for an instant. But I can tell you there will be so much waste and multiple degrees of ugliness overall. 

I look at people like that, sometimes. There is a nurse at work who, quite frankly, is just nasty and almost scary to approach. She even looks hateful. I admit to being completely intimidated by her, and yet, I feel unbelievable compassion for her, as well. What kind of pain has she experienced to treat people with such contempt? I find myself whispering under my breath when she's around, "This is not who you were meant to be." 

So much easier to see it in other people; so much harder to turn and examine myself. 

But I hear it, too. As I ignore a child in favor of a Facebook comment, or indulge in gossip on the job, or stuff my stress with my favorite dessert, deep in my soul I hear a whisper.

This is not who you were meant to be.

I want to be her, the woman I was meant to be.  I want to surrender and be saved, to die to myself, to take up my cross and follow Him. I want to walk on water, to soar to new heights, to put aside the trappings of this life. I want to set aside my selfishness and to let Him live through me. I want to love as He loves. 

This is not a life to be squandered. And it is short. When I come to the end of it, I want to hear, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." I want there to be more glorious moments than waste on the replay, more good than evil, more right than erroneous wrong. 

I don't want to just end up, God help me.

I want to arrive.

Filthy Rags Meets Humble Pie

Ah, I see what you did there, God. I'm pretty sure you knew when I wrote that last post about embracing sinners that I meant those whose sins do not really offend me. 

You know, like sexual sins or financial sins...sins that don't directly affect me or step on my toes. 

I kind of forgot about sins like pride and selfishness that wave themselves right under my nose and take something from me or worse, from those I care about. I forgot about sinners that commit those types of sins. 

Am I so gracious with those sinners? 

Apparently not. 

And you knew that, didn't you?

In fact, you decided to grab ahold of the plank sticking out of my eye and yank it around a bit just to remind me that I have one, eh?

Did you enjoy watching me play the fool? Stomping around, waving my filthy rags of righteousness? Sharing my list of accomplishments in indignation that someone less worthy was receiving glory?

Ouch, Lord. 

It hurts to be humbled. No less so, by my own hand. That fall caused by pride is a doozy.

It's hard to offer grace when the sinner has caused injustice. It was easier for me when I could see them as victim, not perpetrator. But you don't see them as either, do you? Labels are stripped away with you and you see only their heart. 

Will you teach me to do that? To love like you? 

I'm sorry, God. Thank you for loving me enough to show me that big ol' plank still sticking out of this eye of mine, even though it hurts to know it's there.

Filthy Rags

Go and sin no more. (John 8:11)

It's fascinating to me how the religious like to gloss over the rest of the story in their haste to get to this, in their minds, the most critical part of the telling. 

Recently, people that I'm close to, people that I respect, have let me down in their response to sinners. I have been embarrassed by these people, angered by their audacity, frustrated by their callousness. Frankly, I want to walk over and grab them by the huge planks that are sticking out of their eyes and yank them around a bit, just to remind them that, indeed, they have huge planks in their eyes. (Matthew 7:3-5)

You may have noticed that the name of this blog is Remnant of Grace. As a reformed legalist, that name is packed with meaning for me as is the Scripture written under the title. I am that remnant, a rag, a leftover. Isaiah 64:6 resonates with me:

We are all infected and impure with sin. When we proudly display our righteous deeds, we find they are but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall. And our sins, like the wind, sweep us away.

My righteousness is like filthy rags. But I was chosen by grace. My works, my righteousness is not held against me. It is not the standard by which my worth is measured. It is no longer by works. That, my friends, is the gospel. 

So when I see Christians holding up others to another standard, I get a little angry. When I see them looking at someone's lifestyle, their works, to determine their worth, I get frustrated and I cry foul. Why in the world are we comparing rags?  

I love the story in John 8 that I referenced earlier. Trying to trap Him, the Pharisees bring a woman before Jesus and tell Him that she was caught in the act of adultery. The law says to stone her. What should they do? Jesus, of course, ignores them and scratches in the dirt for a bit until they just will not be ignored anymore. Then, He tells them to go ahead and stone her with this caveat: "But let those who have never sinned throw the first stones!" Then he returns to scratching in the dirt as, one by one, they slip away.

He became a shelter for this woman, a blatant sinner, caught in the very act. He shielded her from what she had coming to her, legally and morally. He saved her life. He was a sanctuary to her, not in spite of, but because of her sin. She would not have encountered Jesus had it not been for her sinfulness and she did not come to him voluntarily. 

Religion dragged her there. Religion put her sin on display. Religion made sure everyone knew she did not measure up. 

But Jesus responded to her by being a refuge, not a judge. When her accusers were gone, Jesus looked up and asked, "Didn't even one of them condemn you?" She told Him they hadn't. 

"Neither do I. Go and sin no more." 

He refused to condemn her. He didn't give her a lesson on why she shouldn't sin or on sexual immorality. Legalists like to look at the second part of that verse as an admonishment, a scolding. If you dwell too much on the first part of the story, they are quick to point out the last line, "Go and sin no more." Look at the mess you made. Stop doing that. See where it got you? Now beat it!

But I think we're missing the message if we look at it through that lens. How can we possibly believe that the Jesus who just protected her, and said himself that He would not condemn her, would now respond to her so harshly? "Go and sin no more" is not an admonishment; it's an invitation. There is a better way. You don't have to keep living like you're living. You don't have to wear those filthy rags anymore. Walk in freedom. Live in grace.

It is a statement of hope.

There are those who will unwillingly come to our attention because of sin. They may not be repentant. They may be content to remain in their sin. They may even be defiant. What will our response to those people be? 

Will we lead the charge, waving the list of wrongs, with Scriptures to back us up? Will we attack their character and stone them with our words? Will we abandon them and reject their presence in our lives? 

Or will we respond like Jesus, providing shelter and refuge, refusing to condemn, offering grace and hope?

The condition of my rags proves what my response should be. How about yours?

Surrender

I have this insatiable desire to see the end of something before it has even begun. At the beginning of a crisis I crane my neck to see over or around or strain my eyes to see through. I need to see the end. I need to see that there is an end, I suppose. 

I guess it gives me a sense of control, this knowledge of what I'm up against, like I can lick it if I just know the breadth of what it is. Researching every possible solution and scenario makes me feel prepared, knowledgeable, empowered.

What a crock.

The real power, the real peace, for that's really what I'm looking for in my thirst for understanding, comes only with surrender. Lying awake at night reviewing every possible outcome only serves to fuel anxiety. Almighty Google, with its pictures and links and definitions and rabbit trails only muddies the waters further. 

Clarity, peace, and rest come with surrender. 

I am not in control. There is a peace that goes beyond any understanding I could every hope to have when I simply share my worries with the One who is. 

So, goodnight, Google and Facebook and Blogger.

Hello, Jesus...

The Peanut Butter Swim

Sitting next to my husband, I squirmed in my seat as he told us that trust is one of the most important aspects of relationship. "When trust is low, everything in the relationship is harder. It's like swimming through peanut butter," he said. 

It was Saturday night church and, due to some snot-nosed kids, Shawn and I were treating it like date night while our oldest stayed home with the sickies. 

Shawn was squirming, too. We weren't uncomfortable with the trust level in our relationship. It has always been good and high. But, we both recognized that we have failed our kids in this area. We have said we'd do things that we've not done and trust is low.

We are swimming through peanut butter and it is all our fault.

Sometimes, it is simply because we hate to disappoint, so we say, "Yes," underestimating the time constraints we're already under. "Sure, Zak, we'll make muffins, tomorrow." But tomorrow brings an unexpected doctor's appointment and another child throwing up and all the laundry that goes with that. Our intentions are good, but good intentions with zero follow-through don't hold water with a disappointed six-year-old. 

I wish I could stop there. I wish that it all boiled down to over-commitment. And, with Shawn, that is the biggest issue. But with me, it mostly comes down to selfishness. I tell a kid I'll do something with or for them and then I get a better offer. I get involved in phone conversation or want to finish this chapter or veg out on Facebook. Whatever I want to do too often comes first. 

I'm pretty good with the big things. If I promise a zoo trip or the park, we'll go. But if I say I'll wade through a kid's recent one hundred drawings of jellyfish to choose my favorite, odds are good, something more pressing will come along. And it's sucking the life out of our family.

So now we're working hard to empty the pool of peanut butter and build trust. We're trying to say what we mean and mean what we say. It's tough, but that boils down to saying no upfront a lot more and dealing with the resultant disappointment (and often attitude), initially, instead of getting their hopes up and leading them on. It also means that I have to disentangle myself from whatever interests me, and take a teen to Target or put down the computer and read the promised book, instead. 

We didn't get into this mess overnight and it will take a long time to rebuild the trust levels in this family, but after just a few weeks, we are already seeing progress. I'm noticing less checking and re-checking from one of the younger ones who used to repeatedly ask, "Are we still going to ________?" And, when something was needed to be rescheduled last week, there was so much less drama associated with it, as well. 

Slowly, the peanut butter is thinning. And that is grace.

My Husband, My Hero

He endures disapproving looks from those that think they understand the situation, their judgment hot on his neck on hard days. And then there are the favors people assume he has time for because "he doesn't have anything else to do." He knows no one else on the same journey and has watched friendships falter as common ground slipped away. 

And still he perseveres. 

Just over two years ago, his business tanked and I went back to work. That's the sanitized version we tell people, anyway. The truth is that I was spent. I had reached a point as a homeschooling mom where I was sliding into quicksand and could not reach the surface. I was failing. I couldn't breathe. I grabbed ahold of the opportunity to return to work like a drowning man wraps his whole body around a life preserver and I did not look back for an entire year. 

He rescued me by staying home and we both know it.

He spends his days wiping dirty bottoms and dripping noses, answering endless questions, refereeing countless fights, running load after load of laundry. He shuffles kids to doctor appointments, to therapy, to youth group, to practices, and to homeschool co-op. He unlocks the mysteries of quadratic equations and helps solve for mass while setting the timer for the next toddler potty session. He teaches long division and listens to yet another Bob book while filling the crock pot with what will be dinner.

It is a thankless job.

The days are punctuated by series of crises, one of which invariably involves painting with poop by someone of the youngest set. Sometimes the crisis requires the removal of a toilet to dislodge whatever toy was most recently flushed when someone forgot to shut the door behind them. Lately, it's been unexpected trips to the pediatrician who really should initiate a buy-10-visits-get-1-free-card like I'm always telling him. 

Groundhog day times infinity.

It's hard to remember amidst all that seems like daily chaos, that it matters. That what he is doing is more important than most. He is shaping lives. He is instilling vision and purpose. He is painting Jesus on their hearts and showing them how to love well. He is teaching them to resolve conflict. He is modeling work ethic, integrity, kindness, redemption, forgiveness, patience, and perseverance. And he is doing it while embracing people in our crappy neighborhood and teaching our kids about diversity. He is teaching them, by his very presence that people, that they, matter more than stuff.

The intangible is so difficult to see in the middle of the grind.

Work beckons. His part-time job must constantly be put in its place. Boundaries must stay firm. He has chosen family first, on purpose. These lives will only be here, under this roof, for such a short time. These minds will only be malleable, for just a moment. He knows, one day, they won't want Dad around, but for now, the young ones follow him from room to room and it is a gift, not to be taken lightly. I'm sure that the desire to find his fulfillment, his identity in the work of his hands or in the amount on his paycheck must be overwhelming at times, yet he never complains and rarely comments. 

The temptation to choose differently is great.

He let me dump it all in his lap that first year. I had no responsibility other than going to work. I did not cook a meal and I honestly don't remember even changing a diaper. As I emerged from the fog the second year, my contribution looked very much like criticism of everything he did, which, obviously was unhelpful to the situation. He seemed to have everything under control and I was feeling left out. We were in the process of adopting Bo and we were all feeling a bit undone. Then Bo came home and it was just chaos and too much for one person to handle alone. So we balanced the scales a bit and I reduced work hours and he added some work hours and we're figuring it out. Together. 

He let me find my way back.

When we first married, he left a job that he loved for one that he hated because it had better benefits, benefits that we needed. I knew then that he would do anything for this family. I was not wrong. He was then, and he continues to be, my hero. 

He loves us well.