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That Which Sustains: Art and Amazement

In May of 2018, when all was absolute bedlam–because May is always crazy for teachers, my younger daughter was graduating, and my husband was emerging from cancer #3– Abigail decided she wanted to go to prom with her Duke TIP bestie in Saluda, NC, five hundred miles away. I was game for anything that would allow me to escape my life–the further away, the better–and my younger brother knew of a place in Asheville where I could stay alone and start, again, to regroup.

It had a balcony and trees, he said with hope in his voice, knowing that trees have consistently offered me my sturdiest solace. There was a huge shower; there was good food; there was Tupelo Honey–he softly recited a coaxing litany.

He knew–as everyone knew–that I was lost and nearly dead. The third cancer had decimated us all. We could look one another in the eye and say, “I didn’t think anything could be worse than losing Stephanie Grace”–silently agreeing, disloyal though it sounded, horrific as it is even now to write, that this was worse. Our losses had already been stacked like cordwood–the third cancer set them ablaze.


We had been accustomed to powering through our various sufferings–with gallows humor (the worst: our family joke–if Greg or I die, the survivor can get married immediately after the funeral–a “weuneral”); good food (crab legs and baked goods, mainly); and mindless TV (after my mother-in-law’s heart attack, we watched Family Feud three hours a day).

But our usual formulas had failed.

Despite this, I knew that, in Asheville, I should return to my touchstones, do what the person I once had been would do. I looked on Tripadvisor for “best breakfast,” and I went where my phone told me to go. I ate a tequila donut, drank cold Dr. Pepper, made small talk. I looked at “Explore Asheville.com,” which highlighted a bread festival. I heard my late grandmother’s laughing voice saying, “That’s our kind of festival.” I went there.


Anything I write about my time at the festival is going to sound cliché–there is no way past this. But clichés exist because some human experiences are common, and that day, much of what I felt was: standing in a crowded room yet feeling alone; looking at the river and feeling left behind; envying the innocence of playing children; observing all the happy families, wondering how they stayed that way.

A certain measure of my numbness was my lack of response to the sculptures, to the bicycles in the archway to the brewery. I was in no mood to talk to the bakers about their local sourcing. I didn’t even want to pet anyone’s dog.

The word downtrodden doesn’t fit here, really–but it certainly fit me then, that day in my car. There was nothing I wanted to do, nowhere I wanted to be–I was alone in a beautiful city on a spring day, but it had nothing to offer me. It had all been too much.

Too listless to go back to the condo, I drove to a row of little art galleries, planning to wander around.

Instead, I got healed.


It happened in the third or fourth gallery of the day. There was a family shopping enthusiastically; the shopkeeper was in the back corner painting. I disinterestedly shuffled through some prints, thinking maybe I would come across something for Abigail’s dorm room.

It was on its side, a brown and white water color print–I nearly passed by it, but then, I saw the trees and lifted it up.

Bushes and trees were in line like soldiers from smallest to largest, left to right. But the painting wasn’t about them. The painting was about roots.

The small bushes had shallow roots. Just a few.

But, oh, the roots of the tallest tree.

Its roots were deeper than the tree was high. Twisted wildly, they were beautiful, deep, strong roots. There were so many, so deep in the ground.

I stood in the quiet shop, in its stillness, my tears hitting the floor, the message clear–my daughters’ roots were deep, as were mine.

If nothing else, we had roots.


In my pocket was a $100 bill a friend of my aunt sent to me months before–the accompanying note said it was good to have “pocket money” when things were hard, and I had held tightly to it.

I spent it that day, on the art that brought me back.


The thing is, when sorrow and loss swallow you wholly, you forget who you are. You forget what makes you happy, the things that make you laugh; that food is good and friends are necessary.

After the black pit of trauma and tragedy, for a long time there is a gray, emotionless space, and you are basically so relieved to have quit crying all the time that you don’t care that you are still in a void. You wander around there alone–and sometimes, on good days, you can even believe you may emerge.

You just can’t figure out how.


Art. Nature. Animals. Music. These are the things that can pull you out quickly.

(Not people with all their words–they think they have to use them–and words are not powerful enough against the void, the hopelessness. Certainly, a held hand and a touch on the cheek are helpful, but they aren’t jolting.)

A jolt helps so much. A reminder: this amazing thing is out here.

And, amazed, you find yourself somehow out there once again.


I marvel about this: the power of art and the element of the unknown it includes–think of it: W.H. Price painted some trees in 2014 and, in doing so, rescued me four years later. He will never know this.

Lately, Alexa is playing Luke Combs’ “Houston, We Got a Problem” ten times a day–because when the music swells with the first chorus, I am amazed. Every time. It’s like when those instruments come in, someone sews one more stitch into my soul, and I can take another breath.

I won’t even try to tell you about Eric Church.

It seems absurd doesn’t it? Two country singers and a painter who doesn’t even have a website got me to shore–and none of them will ever meet me or even know of their roles in my rescue.


There’s something in us that wants to thank a gift-giver–to give credit, to pay back. But art makes us unable to–because of the way it is flung into the unknown and appreciated there. That’s what makes it art–that you connect, that you share a secret with the artist. That you know what they meant–that your spirits can wink at one another.

“I see what you did there” is met with, “Thanks, I knew somebody would.”

An echo of heaven itself.


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What We Still Have: Thoughts After Loss

60882335_273909896743594_6862763379958743040_nLast Friday was the last day of regular classes before finals, and in order to make an exemption list, pretty much all grading had to be done Thursday, no matter how much grading there was. So, I sat in my classroom for a few hours after school marking seventy essays about tragic lives in Ancient Greece.

Listening to Luke Combs didn’t help much, nor did Dr. Pepper. I wanted to be home. I wanted comforting hugs and mindless TV. But I told myself on the way home, “You’re not going to get those things.” (As Abby likes to put it, “We didn’t get that [life] version.”)

Even so, when I walked through the door, I still hoped. What I got was, “I was just about to call you to see about dinner.” Ab, who was busily painting a portrait in her bedroom, hollered a hello. I went immediately into the kitchen to start baking chicken tenderloins and chopping onions. I wasn’t angry or even disappointed–I was what we all are right now: resigned.


Lately, we have learned quiet resignation–the limbo between the glass half full clear-eyed cheer and the glass half empty doom-and-gloom. The past fifteen months have been a time of snail’s pace healing–it is amazing how numb we still are. Our thirteen year old cat died recently–likely of the same mouth cancer Greg had. (No, the irony is not lost.) None of us cried. All of us should have. Sophie was the sweetest, softest Gatsby cat–even if she chose never to leave her bedroom. She spent her days alone,  looking out the window at birds and hydrangeas. She was worthy of many tears–instead, the three of us sat in the den saying, “Um, we aren’t crying,” and agreeing: we aren’t healed.

That’s what we want to be, what society wants us to be–to follow the prescribed emotional healing schedule–to read a self help book titled something like Six Days to a Better You and see our traumas disappear in a poof–but, for us, it hasn’t been like that. Greg physically feels better; Abby wants to go places again; I can spend the night away from the house. These are ways we know we are moving forward.

But there is not yet joy. There is not a lot of doing for.  Your chore is still your chore, and I will do mine, thank you very much. There is not much spontaneity. The suggestion of going to a movie is vetoed forcefully–though we will venture out for Rodeos’ minichangas. And there’s not a lot of affection to be had–everyone still wants to be left alone. We’re not shaking hands at church, we’re not holding hands at dinner, and we entirely avoid being with one another in the kitchen.


But, last week in the kitchen as I chopped those onions, I wished things were different, noisier–that I had an effusive husband, that Abby was peppier, that I, at least, could make the full leap back into joy.

And then, I heard it–that still, small voice: “Someone wants this life.”

Someone else wants this life where her husband survives cancer three times–where he is a little grumpy and sometimes sad, but alive.

Someone else wants this life where the two old cars don’t have A/C but are paid for–a hot car is better than no car at all.

Someone else wants a house where everyone has their own bedrooms. Where the backyard has a drake elm so beautiful that it alone can heal you–again and again, year after year. Where the front yard boasts mimosa trees and a Japanese magnolia, with their flowers’ wonderful solace.

Someone else wants an intact family, with parents who can sit at the same table. Who can play a board game, go on a walk, watch TV together.

There is a natural tendency to look at the lack and the loss and not at the still having.

And all of us still have a few things


This is not Guideposts. I did not change immediately. When, at dinner, Greg said all he wanted was one tenderloin instead of the three I offered him, you could tell twenty-nine years have passed since I read Stormie Omartian’s The Power of a Praying Wife.

But, after these fifteen long months, I found myself grateful enough that he was in the next room. That he at least liked the potatoes. That he is still here to cook for, and I’ve stuck around to cook for him.

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Small, Still Joy

56927359_2239554796124695_7525330126238646272_n (1)Three years ago yesterday, I was in the hospital room with my pregnant daughter April when she was told that her baby, Stephanie Grace, was dead. Last night, I stood in a kitchen while someone I loved talked about the baby’s death with the indifference of a stranger discussing football. I didn’t say a word. There was no chastising, no defending or explaining. I just sat and listened and thought about how much we say and how much we shouldn’t.

A year ago, I couldn’t have done that.


The past year, which was defined by Greg’s third cancer, has been a year of ceasing to strive. I no longer try to do more than live in the day. It’s not some noble carpe diem sort of thing, either. It’s the simple fact that I don’t have anything inside of me–there are no reserves left.


Prior to Greg’s first cancer, my Christianity was hopeful but passive–it’s hard to explain, but I spent a lot of time striving to follow the kind heart of the Holy Spirit, trying to listen and hear and then do.  (Like I was a much-loved pull-toy.) Just before Greg’s leukemia diagnosis, I started to realize how much a life of faith was also a choice–I will always be grateful to Pastor Herb Flanders and Jasper UMC for helping me to see that–and I started being more intentional about my faith. Striving to choose and to do.

I’d say there were twenty-five years that involved some sort of striving–then, there were two that were spent crying and wandering.

And then there’s this year–a year when I have just sat.

I don’t think I have been still and known. I picture being still and knowing as someone kneeling under a tree (or perhaps beside a river), as someone being holy and still.

I’ve been more resigned and still.

But stillness implies total lack of movement–I haven’t been going forward or backward. There’s been neither improvement nor further destruction, so, logically, I recognize this: I survived.

And, since it is true that I survived, there must also be this truth: I am no longer broken.

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This realization did not come in a warm and fuzzy “Mold Me and Make Me” moment, but rather in the bittersweet recognition that the life I had is totally over, the life I hoped for is not to be, and–to top it all off–I am someone else entirely.

I am far away from the person I once was. She was destroyed–both her positives and her negatives. I miss her joy in her humor and her effervescence and her energy because I no longer possess much of that. It is so hard to get excited about things, too hard to hope long for much.

That was once me–hoping for the future, making naive plans, relying on people wholeheartedly.

But I have watched things crash and shatter, and the more that things broke, the less sense it made to put them on the high shelf.

So, I keep the things that I treasure both simple and close.

I treasure the trees–I come home from work and go into the front yard, dragging my younger daughter’s orange quilt behind me. I settle in, lie down, and look up. The arcing brown webs of branches up against the green of the leaves and the blue sky behind them comfort me, as do the warm sun and my three cats.56917800_810429569315455_7371662810637402112_n

I treasure friendship–when a friend brings me a little gift or sends me a YouTube video, I recognize the gestures for their true affection. When I laugh with a co-worker between classes and feel that momentary happiness, I relish it.

I treasure my family. We are all still, most of the time, at arm’s length–I think we all recognize this and are sad about it, but we at least know we are now all on the same shore–so, when the girls FaceTime us, when we see April’s rabbit or Abby’s new manicure, and we can oooh and aah, I am grateful to do so. When Greg and I share a joke, when he teases me, I see the glimmer in that split-second gift.


This is nothing inspirational–I don’t have three simple steps people can follow to survive trauma. I can’t even offer any hope of lasting joy. But I can say that beyond the shattering destruction, there is a far-off stillness, and there are sometimes moments of happiness, seconds of joy.


Three years ago today, I held my granddaughter, sweet, precious Stephanie Grace.

 

The Anguish Before The Joy

52420876_2227672550882773_5761755570260410368_nTwenty-four years ago, when April was eighteen months old, we lost her. We had been her foster parents for six months when she was returned to her birth family in New York. It was horrific–Baby Jessica played out in our own driveway–a social worker picked her up at dawn, we buckled her in the carseat after giving her last desperate kisses, she protested, ripped at the straps, kicked and raged.

It was a thousand-mile, permanent good-bye.

One of my best friends said to me simply, “Just remember God loves her more than you do.”

I wanted to punch her in the face.


When we are sorrowing, what we want is for people to see us, to notice our pain. We don’t want platitudes, seemingly hollow assurances of things we already know.

We want comfort, and when I was twenty-five, there was no comfort in her words. Because, then, they were just words.


I am not a good Christian.  I stay away from church during flu season and sometimes sit during the welcoming of visitors. I haven’t listened to Stephen Furtick in over a year, and I don’t know if it’s Lisa or Donna Terkeurst who has done more with her talents than I. Were it necessary, I could not recite too many Bible verses to you through a prison wall.

In fact, sometimes, I feel like the only Bible verse I live out is Romans 7:19, “I do not do the good I want to do.”

I feel my cannots stack up.

But I recognize now–and it has taken almost half a century–that there are no cannots for Him, this God whom I serve. This God who is ever-present, who is in the bottom of the ocean, who is at the mountaintop, who never grows weary. He is always where we are.

I know that now.

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On January 18, 2016, I wrote: “I may not survive April’s pregnancy.” This was before we knew about Stephanie Grace’s anencephaly–this was when I was a fool.

In the 1,145 days since then, I have held my granddaughter’s lifeless body. I have held her ashes. I have stood alongside my husband as his body was destroyed, as he was sewn together like Frankenstein. I have seen our marriage change and our girls move and joy all but leave our house. And I am still here.

Because I was rescued.


I don’t think we really get, we really fully understand, how little our Christianity is about us and how much it is about God. His might. His power. His plan. His will.

So very little is about what we want, and we don’t understand that until we go through the hard and ripping things–places where everything is torn away. Until we get to the place of total powerlessness, when we realize that there is absolutely nothing we can do.

We say that in conversation all the time: There’s nothing I can do. We throw it around just as easily as please and thank you. Usually, however, there is still something we can do. Some small action on our part that might improve things.

But a true tragedy brings us to a place that we have never seen before, a place where we see only our inadequacy and inability. A place where we understand: there is absolutely nothing but God.

There is beauty in that moment–it is different from the beauty of salvation, although it, too is salvation. In that optionless solitude, we see open-eyed: He is our all in all.

This is not some Hallmark-channel-worthy moment where there are rainbows and unicorns dancing in a conga line–no, He becomes our all and all in our brokenness. Where we are. When we can’t even lift our own heads. When we can’t be kind or patient or loving, when we are just destroyed. it is then that He begins truly revealing Himself.


For me, at least, there wasn’t an aha moment. There was just a little light, and then a little more light, and then I could finally see again.

I was so grateful just to see.


I think that’s what time in the wasteland does–takes everything away except for the one thing that cannot be taken away: Him. His love.

It is in the miry pit where we realize that He is truly our only salvation, our rescuer–and clinging to our one rescuer is such a comfort. We were lost, alone, without hope, and yet now, He is here. And, since we are no longer alone, it doesn’t matter when or how we will be rescued. We can rest, even in the pit, and wait to be freed.


There is something to be said for our pit time–for the resultant assurance we have after our rescue, for the confidence we have in our Savior. We were rescued when we did not deserve to be! And, having been rescued once, having felt His fierce grip, we know that we can trust Him to save us again.


52809970_750402708664562_8961140433480581120_nTwenty-four years ago before Christmas, April came back to us–the story of the prodigal son played out in our driveway. She ran through the house as fast as her twenty-one-month-old legs could carry her, shrieking in joy, rubbing her belly and laughing ecstatically.


I remember both those days–the day she left and the day she returned–with tears.

There was anguish. And then: such joy.

 

 

 

 

Photos: Ginger Holmes George

 

 

 

 

An Adoption Story (with a Flourish)

January 29, 2018

Today at precisely 4:35, I wished that I had some chicken tetrazzini. My fibromyalgia has been bad, and chicken tetrazzini is a favorite comfort food. (My daughters will tell you that I ate it three meals a day for three weeks the year I had the flu.) At 6:45 tonight–without calling first–my friend Patricia knocked on our door bringing what I thought was her trademark five-star coffee cake. But, no, for the first time ever, she handed me chicken tetrazzini.

Patricia said she had been making some for her family and just suddenly thought of us.

Friends, I don’t know why we can’t get a long run of good health or a big financial miracle, but God CONSISTENTLY shows me that he cares VERY MUCH for me through all these little things. So many little things. 


Within 48 hours of that post, Greg was diagnosed with cancer #3–and our family would once again fight off a quick descent into fear and heartbreak. The fact that God fed me beforehand–that He clearly showed me, “I hear you,” was not lost on me. He has always shown his faithfulness, certainly–and He has also done so with a flourish.


50806980_404095350363625_3774106716409430016_nTwenty-five years ago today, we lived in Statesboro, Georgia. Greg, who was 28 and healthy, had gone to Atlanta for an early birthday celebration, and I was planning to attend an out-of-town Christian women’s conference with my friend Marcia who, like me, was a foster parent. My bags were packed and I was ready to go–until the phone rang.

It was DFCS with an emergency placement. There was a four-year-old, Morgan*, who needed a place to stay, probably only temporarily.

We were new foster parents previously having only hosted one child, a middle-schooler. A four-year-old seemed infinitely more fun. But I had paid for the conference. Greg wasn’t home. Marcia was about to come and get me.

I told the director to give me a minute to figure things out.

I called Marcia, who, like most people, has always seen things clearer than I do. She said, “It comes down to this: do you want a four-year-old or not?”

Yes. I did.


I was twenty-four, suddenly “mom” to a four-year-old. Morgan, who was apparently from a perfectly stable and happy home, yammered away in the back seat about how wonderful life was with mom and dad and auntie. About dogs and cats and balloons. About cotton candy and Chuck E. Cheese and daycare.

The child did not hush.

Morgan, who had evidently been convincingly reassured by a custodial parent that this was nothing more than a fun weekend away, was happy to be with me. And I, too, was thrilled.

We played with my dogs, threw rocks in our pond, ate french fries at McDonald’s, bought pajamas and a toothbrush at K-mart. We made a fort out of sofa cushions and watched Barney and ate ice cream. We did so much.

I, at least, was worn out–but at bedtime, Morgan was having none of it. It was Time to Talk.

Exhausted, I brought the sofa cushions into my bedroom, made Morgan a pallet and turned off the lights. I lie still and listened to Morgan talking in the twilight, a soft voice happily telling me things, going on and on and on into the night.


Morgan was with us only that weekend–on Monday afternoon the judge sent Morgan back to an obviously happy home.

I’d missed a conference and a whole lot of sleep, but I’d had a great time with a little kid.

That was all. (So I thought.)


A year later, I was teaching in Millen, Georgia, when I was called to the office to speak to DFCS. We’d just come off a rough placement of a large sibling group who fought constantly and, as Greg dryly put it, “Conveniently wrote graffiti about us on our own living room walls.” I felt like God had told me to hang on, to keep them no matter what, and we had. But the months had been long, and awful.

I sat down at the vice principal’s desk and picked up the phone, prepared to say no to whomever we were offered.

Totally unprepared for the words toddler and girl. 

The director said the girl had just turned one. Her name? April Roe.

I said yes instantly, without calling Greg. I left him a message at work, headed home, put fresh sheets on the crib and waited for our baby. 51251520_2424644140944156_4486274893234569216_n


April came to us that February night, a Valentine in her hand. We were her home number three. She was mute, traumatized.

She clung to that Valentine until bedtime, when Greg politely asked for it, bending her fingers away one by one, making her let go.


Years later, I was cleaning out my DFCS notebook, where all ninety-three foster children’s paperwork was neatly cataloged, when I noticed a date: January 28, 1994. I recognized that date: April’s birthday.

It was also the date that sweet, chatty Morgan had come to us, keeping me up for almost twenty-four hours, chattering away, making sure–as only a four-year-old could–that I would forever recall every moment of my adopted daughter’s birthday.

That, although I was not in the delivery room in Hudson, New York . . . although I was a thousand miles South and a different kind of weary, I would recall every instant of the day April Roe, my daughter, was born. God made sure of this. He didn’t have to let me know where I was every second twenty-five years ago today, but He did. Out of His faithfulness. Out of His love.


Her name? April Roe? That her birth mother gave her?

It means, literally, “New life, deer.”

(What a flourish.)

 

 

gofundme

 

 

 

 

 

Teachers’ Hearts: On the Loss of Students

50264375_366084627277340_1670165120438763520_nNovember 22, 2016

Before they left for Thanksgiving Break, my eighty-two tenth graders and I made a promise to one another–we would remain safe, make wise decisions, and return alive on the Monday after Thanksgiving.

The understanding is established on the first day of school: My students are told an unusual rule: They are not allowed to die.

I tell them that I cannot be the teacher who bravely greets her devastated class, despite her own irreparable, sorrowing heart, who is somehow expected to guide students who are even more broken.

Expected to say words when there are none.

Greeted by an empty desk–then stoically watching as it is covered by construction-paper cards, grocery-store flowers, and beloved stuffed animals.

Tasked with cleaning out a desk or a locker, returning half-read library books and thumbing through composition books full of doodles and daydreams. Taking one last smell of a sweater before packing up a backpack, grateful that the classroom cameras can’t record her sobs.

Forced to endure visitation at a funeral home full of gawkers and grievers. To be kind and say the right thing to so many when so much is so drastically wrong. When a piece of her own world is gone.


The teacher-student relationship is precious. Teachers don’t often talk about it because we fear that we may misspeak or be misunderstood and pilloried when we are people who know that what we do is holy.

We work in rooms full of shared life–rooms where there is magic, where there is community, and where there is love.

The American public doesn’t want to talk about, much less acknowledge, this love, preferring instead to attempt to recast the teacher-student relationship into a business relationship, efficient and cold, but one with less risk of lawsuits.

Despite this, teachers continue to love. It is, perhaps, what we do best.


As the November bus crash in Chattanooga reverberated throughout the nation, three million educators mourned with the teachers of the five dead students. Imagined the agony. Lost sleep as they role-played, wondering how they themselves would cope.

I had not cried about the bus crash until I read, “Late Monday night [the night of the crash] teachers from across the district gathered at Woodmore Elementary School painting a colorful mural of encouragement and support.”

I pictured them–men and women lost in grief for children who were not theirs, yet very much theirs. Teachers anguished and wondering, wanting to do and to heal, to start immediately stitching up the unfathomable, unexpected wound.

And then thinking beauty. Thinking love. Thinking unity.

Driving to Woodmore in the dark night to create. To encourage.  For their children, who would need so much reassurance.

I imagined these teachers drinking coffee and crying into Kleenex as they painted, while swapping stories about Zoie, Cordayja, Zyanna, Zyaira, and D’Myunn. (Keonte would later die of his injuries.) Maybe they shared stories of how they had worked on Thanksgiving art earlier in the day. Written poems about the Pilgrims. Talked about their family traditions.

I could hear them saying, “The last time I saw her, Zoie . . .” and I hear the laughter. I imagine Cordayja’s teacher talking about her jangling bracelets; Zyanna’s teacher talking about her writing, and Zyaira’s about her helpful attitude. I picture them talking of  D’Myunn, how he was the heart of the class, a joy to teach.

I saw them painting into the early morning hours. I imagined them there in that building, laughing and crying, renewing their hearts so they could begin to restore their students’.

I saw them.


January 16, 2017

I wrote that beginning of a blog entry on November 22, 2016, then filed it away, dissatisfied. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t enough. It went nowhere.

Now, in January on Martin Luther King Day, I am alone in my classroom listening to Kid Rock and making art because, like the teachers at Woodmere, I have lost a favorite student, Hannah. Like them, I am wholly brokenhearted, yet tomorrow, I must face children because that’s what teachers do. 

One of the most important things we do is face children when worlds are falling apart. We look into their eyes, touch their cheeks. We say, “Your grandma may have died, but it is wonderful that you got to love her this long.” “Your father may not care about you, but that is his loss because you, child, are incredible.” We escort them through losses, striding alongside them on our sometimes-weary legs.

Teachers can’t quit marching. They can’t give up. They can’t say, “This is too much. I am staying in bed.” Every day their students bring their jumbles of sorrow and joy, and teachers try, amid algorithms and adverbs, to also teach students that they are strong, that they will endure, and that they will survive. We delight in the joys–the day that the kids get their letterman jackets, the senior march at Prom, and, of course, the jubilance of graduation. These are such sweet days, and we bear close witness.

But there are other days when it is necessary to wade willingly into sorrow, our arms outstretched, holding twenty-eight pairs of hands as our students trail along behind.

Tomorrow, we will begin the wade.50407348_1014545712061835_3352859171581067264_n


January 17, 2019

It has been two years. Two years since the night I showed up wordless at Hannah’s home, having never before met her mother and stepfather, apologizing because I knew I could not stay away. Two years since I stood in their starlit yard with my grieving students, listening to their cries. 

I have lost two more former students since then–their names in a sad list on a small sheet of paper on my desk at work.  I see it every day. I want to remember them.

They were in my classroom–I saw their smiling faces when they understood, finally, where that stupid comma needed to go. I heard their stories about the bus rides with the band. I read their bad poetry, their angsty journals, their narratives of beach trips.

That they are gone is incomprehensible.


In the movie Cry, the Beloved Country, Jarvis–having just been told by a police officer that his only son was dead–staggers backward, props himself on his truck, and says, his eyes blank, “Dead . . .  Shot dead?”

Every time we watch it in my classroom, I rewind the scene. I make my students look at actor Conrad Harris’s eyebrows, how he lifts them, wordlessly conveying the shock. They watch his hand over his face, his open mouth, his empty eyes, his collapse onto the bumper of the truck. His collapse. 

I tell my students that sons matter that much. That they, too, as sons and daughters, matter that much.


Today, in leadership class, we began preparing next month’s bulletin boards. Volunteers were heading to the library to cut out hearts on the Ellison machine–the idea was that each of our 1,000+  students could then get one heart and write down something they love about our school. 

As I turned to get the pink paper from the cabinet, it hit me: just before she died, Hannah, too, had cut out hearts in anticipation of a February bulletin board–she had bounded into the room, her hands full of hearts, yammering away about how she cut out extras for her boyfriend, how she was going to put them in his truck. How she had saved the scraps because she knew me, and I saved everything, so I would use them for something. She had stuffed them in a cubby hole where I found them on that MLK weekend after her death, when I carefully hung them, not on the bulletin board, but on my classroom door in tribute to her, the student who made me so much better.

Tears filled my eyes as I got the pink paper, and I explained that I was thinking of Hannah and her hearts and all that yammering. I told the kids, “At least you know I love you.”

They grinned, heading off to cut out hearts like Hannah had, taking a piece of my heart with them.

Just like she did.

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The Comfort of Love (Why You Should Just Shut Up)

46358135_10218665678539673_3012786469992398848_n(This blog contains references to suicide.)

My husband and I were foster parents for the first ten years of our marriage. We fostered 93 children whose names are still listed on a stained and wrinkled sheet of notebook paper that is taped inside a kitchen cabinet. Sometimes, standing in my classroom at the end of the day, after my 82 current students have paraded through the classroom with their tales of sorrows and joy, I think You lived with more children than that.

And these children were strangers. They were not flesh of my flesh. They were little people who had been ripped from their homes–flawed though those homes may have been, they were still places where primal bonds endured–and forced to cast their lots with strangers.

Strangers.

These were not children whose hurts could be cured by Legos, cotton candy, and shiny bicycles. These kids had endured unspeakable things. They had been beaten, molested, gone unfed. They were children with “issues.”

In social worker lingo, a child who steals a roast beef from the kitchen and hides it under his bed has “food security issues”–what this means is she was annoying the neighbors by eating their dogs’ food.

Yes: we kept children in our home who had been found while foraging for dog food.

And the logical thought that follows reading that is something like: I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t help those kids, I wouldn’t know where to start.

And that would be true.

There were children who had been beaten so badly by their parents that, after carefully documenting their bruises, the teary-eyed pediatrician hugged them. Their father worked for a national company, and twenty-two years later, I still almost vomit every time I see the company logo. The beatings were that bad. That brutal.

Bundling those children up and taking them to Disney World wouldn’t have solved their problems. There was no quick fix.

Occasionally, DFCS workers called before they brought a child and said, “I forgot to tell you: you may want to hide the knives and scissors before we get there.”

Hide the knives. Hide the scissors. Oh, and sleep well.

Of course, we couldn’t go to church on Sunday and say, “Gee, guys, the reason we are a little stressed right now is that at night before bed, Lizzy tells us that she hopes we die–did you know her uncle molested her?” We were bound by DFCS rules–and common decency–to protect our foster children’s privacy.

Even after our elder daughter’s adoption, we kept a great deal of her background private. No one knew that she had relatives who could have taken her from us in 1998–and chose not to. So, in 2016, we found ourselves judged for sending her to visit them–despite the fact that two state governments said she could have been with them all along.


The most valuable thing about years like those we have just endured is the clarity they bring. Amid the garbage, beneath the flames, there it is: the distillation. We are certain about things that once shook us.

Among the revelations, the clearest is perhaps the most unsettling: I now realize how little we truly know about one another, about even our closest friends’ journeys. At Stephanie Grace’s memorial service, the pastor shared a scripture I had never heard: “The heart knows its own bitterness and joy; he will not share these with a stranger.” (Proverbs 14:10 WEB)

That day, I felt again the clarity and truth of scripture; I knew with a certainty that I had no true insight into the hearts of even my own husband and daughters. None at all. I had never before known such loss and brokenness, and I knew that none of us could verbalize our anguish. In sorrow, they were strangers to me. Though much was known, more was unknown.


We don’t go around telling others our deepest secrets. We don’t show our worst hurts. In adulthood, we learn that few people really care, that others will twist our words or–worse yet–mock us with them later, parading our pain for fun. So, we don’t share our fears. We repress and self-medicate, but we don’t say, “You know, I’m in such a rut–every single day of my life is the same.” “I can’t get out of bed in the morning since my husband left.” “I drink a twelve-pack every night.” After all, who would we tell that to?

And what could they do, anyway?


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Braxton Cromwell Stewart

I have spent twenty years teaching; I have also spent twenty years reading about suicide. I know, I know: suicide is so stigmatized that I’m not supposed to even admit I read about it–despite the fact that I teach Antigone and Julius Caesar, plays in which suicide is featured prominently.

But I do read about it. I know things like:

  • People who die by suicide sometimes see it as a rational act.  Susan Rose Blauner, in her book How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me, says that the person is drawing a line in the sand, saying, “The suffering stops here.” (That’s a paraphrase–every copy I have ever given away has been kept, and rightfully so.)
  • I know that suicide is contagious–so much so that institutions and the media are asked to follow protocols in the aftermath, that whole towns must try to cope.
  • I know that the time period from the decision to attempt suicide to attempting it is only twenty minutes for at least half of the people, a much shorter time period than period previously thought.
  • I know the rate of suicide is rising.
  • I know that suicide is the second or third leading cause of death among young people between 15 and 24.
  • I know that LGBT youth are more likely to attempt suicide.
  • I know that Christians who love Jesus can be truly depressed. (Click that link!)
  • And, thanks to Mark Rutland, I know that there is hope in Christ, even for those who die by suicide. Years ago, I heard the pastor’s explanation in a sermon on cassette, and it has stayed with me: He said that he was confronted by a brokenhearted mother, hysterical over the loss of her beloved child, and he assured her that he believed there was a millisecond between the initiation of the attempt and its finalization in which her child could have thought, “My Lord, what have I done??? Forgive me.”

I was once on an elevator in Town Center Mall with a beautiful blonde young mother. She was impeccably dressed; her bubbly toddler daughter was in an expensive stroller. Abby was two, and she and I were ragtag and exhausted, still consumed by Greg’s leukemia battle.

As our daughters looked out the glass elevator together, I made some offhand remark about our struggling air, my husband’s bone marrow transplant, his leukemia.

I remember her matter-of-fact tone, even now: “Leukemia? That’s an easy cancer. I lost my first daughter to —————. There’s no cure. You’re lucky, he has an easy cancer.”

She meant her words to be reassuring–and they were–but they were also jarring.

She looked magazine-perfect, but she had lived horror.

When we had boarded the elevator, I wanted her life–but by the time we got to the basement, chastened, I was so grateful for my easy sorrow.

Four minutes had changed my perception irrevocably. Just four minutes.


I do not understand much–but I do understand suffering. I do understand pain. And I know what those who are suffering the most, who are enduring loss and heartbreak and despair and hopelessness need more than anything, and that is someone to come alongside.

The unexpected death of a child, the failed adoption, the divorce, the loss–these pain of these things will never totally go away on this earth. It will always be there. There is nothing you can do about the pain of these losses–these things that they don’t even make greeting cards for.

It’s hard to accept that sometimes, nothing can be done, that there are no words to say, that some losses are truly so savage that even the comfort of words is lost.

Do what Jesus would–in the middle of the pain and sorrow–show up.


In Seattle, we watched twenty-one people die of cancer. Friends on the ward. Neighbors in patient housing. Young fathers. Toddlers.

It was so awful.

On one of the worst days there, my best friend, widowed under an hour, raged at the front door of the apartment building, having forgotten her key. Abby, who was 18 months old, went with me to open the door.

My friend was unrecognizable, such was her grief.

Abby was unfazed by her wails. Looking at me for clarification, she said, “Ria’s heart is broken?” and toddled over to her, arms open wide, offering the only comfort she could: the comfort of love.

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What You Did RIGHT in 2018

48914113_1969712729742522_7622048185539624960_nAs a teenager, I was a part of a dynamic youth group–it was large and fun and truly Christ-centered. There were men and women who invested in me tirelessly, who were devoted to my health and spiritual growth with an intensity I have not experienced again. They “got” discipleship. They planted seeds, they watered them, and they brought forth a harvest.

Their harvest–now middle-aged adults–includes a number of pastors and pastors’ wives, children’s and music ministers, missionaries, a successful Christian drummer (with seven Dove Award performances), a 700 Club producer, a “Senior Director of Digital Ministries” for In Touch Ministries, and homeschooling parents galore.

I am among another contingent, a contingent that sometimes seems less than.  Friends who once sat with me on a sweltering church bus now lead hundreds to Christ, while my biggest Christian victory is being nice to a Kroger cashier. The kid whose parents hosted “Fifth Quarter Fellowship” rubs shoulders with Andy Stanley, while I drop off bags of secondhand clothes at students’ homes.

My friend Tasha and I were headed to Walmart last week, and she said, “Do you ever look at the other people from our youth group and think, I missed it somehow?”

I chuckled and replied. “You’re my personal minister.”


We have been friends for over thirty years, longer than I’ve known my husband. We are the dullest of friends. We do a lot of sitting in silence. We never take day trips; we don’t go shopping or see movies together; there’s not even a lot of eating out, except for a birthday dinner–ours are a day apart.

Most of the time, we either sit in my backyard or we do jigsaw puzzles. Either way,  have the same conversations we have had a thousand times before about birds and marriage and kids and heartache and work–and the things we would do if we had the money.

Sometimes, I go to her house at night. I sit in her grandfather’s chair and pet her cat and eat Nerds.

It is all so plain.

It is so far and different from Michael W. Smith and women’s conferences and refugee ministry.

But Tasha–and friends like her–have stood close during my husband’s three battles with cancer. Have come alongside during the sorrows of our lives–miscarriages, failed adoptions, the stillbirth of my granddaughter. Have sat silently comforting us with their presence, bearing witness my family’s implosion.

If there is someone sitting placidly on your couch, no one can become totally unhinged. No one can throw china against the wall to hear its satisfying crack. No one can say mean things if there is someone calmly petting a cat in the recliner. On one of the most wrenching days of our lives–when it seemed the whole family would surely go, the ship would finally, this time, sink–Tasha and her son sat at our table eating pizza wordlessly, chewing and swallowing, sitting shiva.


49206199_289550865245574_5565538378729914368_nAfter Stephanie Grace was stillborn, the days were long stretches of sorrow. Greg’s third cancer stretched them further still, endless hours and minutes to be endured.

And there were people–not a lot of them, but enough–who made those days bearable. Who dropped by and sat and told Greg funny stories. Who brought him egg drop soup and ice cream. Who cleaned his wound with me. Who were present.

That, sometimes, is the most important part of the Christian walk: showing up.  Coming alongside. When the cancer comes back; when the baby dies; when the adoption falls through.

Because all cannot truly be lost if your friends are still there.


So, when you are evaluating 2018, when you are looking back and seeing all your nots--the weight you did not lose, the money you did not save, the daily Bible reading you did not do–I would encourage you to see the things you did do.

You were a friend. You went to a funeral. You wrote a note. You sent a check. You answered the phone in the middle of the night and then, you listened until dawn.

You sat at a sad family’s kitchen table and ate pizza.

You were a personal minister, a reminder of the love of our real and living God.

And that’s a pretty spectacular thing to be.

 

 

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The Teenager at Your Thanksgiving Table

46503992_918579165008420_2801454627122315264_nThe area of my life that I am good at–the best skill I possess–is a non-monetized sector of our economy. I am good with teenagers. I get them, and they appreciate the fact that I do. We actually enjoy our time together, mostly–they will say things like, “I mean, if I have to be in this school building, I guess I would rather be here then anywhere else . . . but I wish I didn’t have to be in this school building.”

Tomorrow, they are going to have to be somewhere else that they do not want to be: at your Thanksgiving table. And the reasons that they do not want to be there are many:

  1. It all feels fake: they are wearing clothes they don’t normally wear. Yes, we parents would like our children to always look Christmas-card worthy, but, after all, we aren’t parading around our prized show goats–we are just taking our kids to Aunt Helen’s. If your son wants to wear a UGA hoodie, ask yourself–are you more concerned about what Great Aunt Mabel thinks than what your son feels? Your son needs to have his autonomy respected at Thanksgiving among his relatives so that he can maintain it down by the river with his buddies on a moonlit Friday night. For teenagers, clothes are personhood. Trust your teen to be a person.
  2. It all feels fake: your nuclear family is (perhaps) pretending to be happier than you truly are. If Mom hasn’t spoken a kind word to Dad in two weeks; if elder brother Bobby Joe got arrested last week for breaking and entering; if Sis just told everyone she is pregnant–if there is any sort of ongoing family crisis at all and you are all in a tacit agreement to pretend otherwise, then you are asking your teen to participate in “finessing” everyone at dinner. And teenagers generally prefer authenticity.
  3. It all feels fake: distant relatives are acting elated to see them. I’m a fairly terrible long-distance aunt. So, when I am around my nieces and nephews on holidays, I do my best not to act as if I am World’s Best Aunt material. I am genuine and warm with them, sure, but I do not gush over them because that would be patronizing. If you see your nephew only twice a year, to pretend that you are devastated that you don’t is just wrong. As an adult, you either need to do better and see him more or tell both of you the truth: you are happy to see him when you do. He will appreciate your honesty and attention.
  4. Relatives keep asking the wrong questions–and putting teens on the spot. In one of my favorite speeches, Paul Graham tells teens, “People are always asking you [what you want to do with your life] . . . adults ask this mainly as a conversation starter . . . They ask it the way you might poke a hermit crab in a tide pool, to see what it does.” Resist the urge to poke the teenager at your Thanksgiving table–because the last thing any fifteen-year-old wants is five adults waving their forks at her while offering friendly advice. Ask her instead about books she is reading, movies she has seen–anything the two of you could talk about quietly together. Because . . .
  5. Teenagers are generally embarrassed to be alive. When my students enter my classroom on the first day of school, I herd them in while hollering, “It’s okay, I know you are embarrassed to be alive,” and they always chuckle–because they are, they really are. This is why the same kid who wins a public speaking contest can’t give his order to the waiter or talk to the cashier at Wal-Mart. It’s all just too much sometimes. And for some teens, Thanksgiving is one of those times. So, let it be. On the ride over to Aunt Helen’s, ask if there’s anything they would rather not talk about, and then don’t talk about it. While you may be ecstatic that Johnny won third place in the hog show at the fair, if he doesn’t want to mention it, just don’t–even if it doesn’t make sense to you.
  6. Some relatives play favorites, and teenagers have begun to realize this. If Grandma calls Cousin Sally “honeybunch,” buys her Dr. Pepper, and only invites her for sleepovers, then Cousin Sally has it a lot better than your teen–and you should acknowledge that. If Pop-Pop bought your brother’s son a Bobcat ATV last  Christmas and only gave your son a Carhartt beanie, well, there’s a problem–and you shouldn’t pretend otherwise. (Our family is unique in that our older daughter, who is adopted from foster care, was taken back to her birth family when she was eighteen months old–and when DFCS returned her to us four months later, we all spoiled her. Her younger sister has had to recognize and live with that: “She was given a car on her birthday, but you weren’t” is much more difficult to process if no one tells you why.) Acknowledge the why; remind your teen that Cousin Dale had three heart surgeries at birth and that’s the reason everyone dotes on him. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere; help your kid to find it.
  7. Some relatives are awful. If you have a sister who calls your child “fat,” do something about it. If there is a drunk uncle who hugs your teenage daughter for a millisecond too long, deal with him. Confront, confront, confront. Don’t put your sister’s self-worth before your child’s. Don’t dismiss your daughter, saying, “Uncle Fred is just that way, he didn’t mean anything by it.” When you make excuses for an adult’s behavior, your teen learns that other people are more important than he is: and no one else should be more important to you than your child.
  8. Some relatives are racist or sexist or homophobic. (Some parents are too.) My elder daughter dated an African-American man in college, and they were not always treated well by outsiders–watching their struggle was difficult. My younger daughter is a member of PERIOD: The Menstrual Movement at her university. Providing menstrual products to less fortunate women is something she has done for three years–but bringing that up at Thanksgiving in the South might be “too liberal”–it would definitely be too something. If your child can’t talk about her boyfriend, her interests, or her friends, why should she be excited about lunch? She is eating with people who are supposed to love her–but they can’t even accept the things and people she loves.
  9. They are made fun of for their dietary choices. If they are vegan or gluten-free or Ovo-vegetarian, please don’t mock them. Just let them eat in peace. There are toddlers in the kitchen eating only macaroni; there are adults who are just gorging on pigs in a blanket and swilling their beer. Leave Grace alone if she doesn’t want turkey. Or bread. Or milk. It’s called autonomy.
  10. Their maturation can go unacknowledged. They are seated at the kids’ table or put in charge of meaningless chores. After lunch, they are sent out of the room or even told to go outside. This wholesale dismissal badly hurts teens. If they aren’t worthy of time and attention, why should they come to dinner at all? After you eat, invite your niece or nephew to sit and talk to you. Look them in the eyes and really talk. Tell them stories they have never heard before–mistakes you made, adventures you went on, how things were when you were fifteen–and then listen, really listen, when they respond. Resist the urge to check your cell phone or to check the score on the TV: focus instead on the teenager talking to you: he’s a person, and he just wants someone to see that. Make sure you do.

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Should Church Really Stress Us Out? (Living on the Verge of Falling)

46459316_514541725729785_8217113980255076352_nDuring my teenage years, I was in church almost every night. It was a better place to be than home, where chaos ruled and supervision was lacking. Church gave me a loving God, caring adults, funny friends, and a place to be me–just me. It gave me a place away from my family, away from school, away from everything–but close to God. I could focus on His plans for me and His plans for my life.

I loved it.


Now, though, as an adult approaching fifty, my family has been drifting away from the church. Church has been hard because it’s been difficult to be around people. Some days we don’t want to talk, other days we do. Sometimes it’s just hard to sit still and listen and not do. Our minds wander too much when our hands are not busy.


I have a lot of Christian friends–friends who are smart and holy. Like me, they post a lot on Facebook because we live in South Georgia where there’s not a lot to do. These well-read people post interesting things–and one recent fad seems to be writing articles about the theology of worship and whether or not contemporary Christian songs are even Christian at all. So, now, when I’m at church and hear songs like “Oceans” or “10,000 Reasons,” rather than using them to focus on God, I think of Facebook articles I read about the “ad nauseam repetition” and whether the songwriters are truly Christians.

Not only do I have to wonder whether my clothes are appropriate, whether I’m sitting in someone else’s pew, whether I was polite enough to the old lady who greeted me so nicely in the narthex–now, I have to wonder whether Matt Redman is theologically sound.


My father-in-law always says that too much information is a bad thing. I think the current emphasis on worrying so much about so many things–the lighting, the sound of the drums, whether ear plugs are necessary, what kind of coffee to get, set decorations, the ambience, and, now, the theology of lyricists–all of these things distract from the one thing that we all need most in every church, and that is the presence of the Lord.

By obsessing over so many things that do not matter–and so many things do not matter–we are losing sight of the things that do. It is easier to read ten articles on Facebook about Christianity than to read one page of the Bible. It is easier to post six scriptural illustrations than to show Christian kindness to one person who smells really bad. And it is easier to psychoanalyze songwriters than to look at our own hearts and see our filthy rags–our hearts made righteous only by Christ.


I really don’t know when everything became an ordeal and nothing could be simple 46522727_573206093108602_3026601700451418112_nanymore. Maybe our parents also felt this way and had these struggles–I don’t know–but I don’t think church has to be hard.  Church doesn’t have to be a place where we dwell on all the wrong or, conversely, pat ourselves on the back for all the right that we do. Church is a refuge, a place where we are safe and we can forget about this world and how lousy life can be and focus on God, who heals and restores.


One summer day in 2001, I sat in a  hospital conference room desperately praying with a Jewish woman as her husband was dying. Later that month, I held another hysterical friend in the moments after her own husband died. In both instances, my prayers were very repetitive.  I prayed very simply because life had been stripped to its core.

Perhaps some praise and worship songs come from such places of simple truth.


When Greg was flighting his third cancer, as I walked through the house one day, I heard, “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” And then I realized I was saying that. Those were my words. My spirit man was crying out repetitively. The need for prayer was so great that it was coming forth, that it was filling the house even though I was in a wretched state, beyond prayer myself.

God was there. God was present. In my distress, He came to me.


I think people who parse lyrics, who search for nuance and subtext and sin, who subject them to “The Berean Test” and numerically rank their theology miss this: God can use anything, anyone. God can touch and heal at will, using tools that you and I would not understand or approve of.

Because He’s God.


After my granddaughter was stillborn, missing part of her skull, missing her leg, after our world was destroyed and there was nothing but loss and sorrow, every single day I spent my entire planning period listening to “He Knows My Name” and “Didn’t I Walk on Water” on a loop–those two Joseph Larson songs over and over. Their strong reminders of God’s love and presence allowed me to function.

When I Googled their singer, I found a site that talked about his alleged marijuana use and labeled him a “lascivious fornicator.” For a second, I thought I couldn’t listen to his songs anymore. I thought it would be wrong of me, to choose to listen to a “bad” person.

And then I remembered that we are all, at our cores, bad people–there are none righteous. There are none good.

Christ is, truly, for all of us, our only hope. We may rank sins, forgiving some and condemning others, but our judgment is only an attempt to soothe our own souls. The truth is, I don’t know the hearts of Joseph Larson or Matt Redman or Lauren Daigle.  I don’t know if they are singing for God or mammon. I don’t know if they have drug problems or are squeaky clean. But I do know that, through Christ, God can use them no matter their sins.


Have you ever stood in a church service and sung “Awesome God” in a loud, true chorus with everyone singing as one? Wasn’t it wonderful? You felt either complete or strengthened. You were pushed forward in your faith.

On Pinterest, you can choose your “Awesome God” imagery. There is Jesus holding the world in his hands; there are men and women with their hands upraised; there is a small child in a snow cap; there is a woman in a field–and all of these images declare, “Our God is an Awesome God.”

The song-turned-catchphrase was written by Rich Mullins, who also wrote another, less well-known song entitled “Hold Me, Jesus.”

He wrote it when he was in Amsterdam, where everything was legal, and where he was tempted by sin–even though he was a contemporary Christian artist who knew better.

He was so tempted.

Of that time, he stated, “You think you’re getting somewhere, you think you’re growing as a Christian . . . and all of the sudden, you’re in a situation where you go, ‘I am just as susceptible as I was when I was 16 to a lot of things.”

When I was sixteen and susceptible, what resonated with me about Mullins’ music was that it sounded true. The faith that he presented was accessible and human, not mysterious and complicated. His self-acceptance helped me then, and it helps me now.

He is right to say: “Whether or not I like who I am, that is who I am . . . People are gonna judge you, and there are I think actually people who look for excuses to condemn you and look for excuses to say bad things about you, but God doesn’t look for those kinds of excuses . .  . the conclusion of the matter for me was that I think I would rather live on the verge of falling and let my security be in the all-sufficiency of the grace of God than to live in some kind of pietistic illusion of moral excellence. Not that I don’t want to be morally excellent. But my faith isn’t in the idea that I am more moral than anybody else: my faith is in the idea that God and His love are greater than whatever sins any of us commit.”

I live on the verge of falling. I live among people whom I fail every day, who list my shortcomings in a litany, a continual screed of my inadequacies and failures. For some of them, I will never be enough.

Yet in spite of my flaws, through Christ, I can write this blog.

In spite of his failings, Rich Mullins wrote powerful Christian anthems.

Because in our miry pits, places from which we desperately need comfort and rescue, we know our only hope is Him.

We know that God and His love are greater than sin. Than my sin. Than your sin. Than our sin.


These days, there are few things in our adult world that make us want to “take a lap.” To get up and run and dance and shout for joy. Church, in my opinion, should be a time to focus on that amid such rubble and ash.

God’s grace is a shoutable thing.

We know how awesome that is.

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