Author of hope

It’s Sunday morning and our pastor invites us to pray silently for the person on our right and then the person on our left. My Rhema-girl is on my left, sitting between Brandon and me. She’s humming softly, continuously, as she colors papers on her lap. Her dress, fingers and nose are marker-stained as usual. She’s had a string of good days and we’ve been basking in her, the light in her smile and eyes.

The pastor has been teaching from Psalm 42 where David is struggling with despair and depression, “where tears are his food day and night.” And I think, don’t we all feel it? When the hurting, fighting, suffering stretches from Baghdad to Ferguson to here.

Hope thou in God, David tells himself. And we are reminded: There is never a time when we may not hope in God. He is our hope.

I bow my head to intercede for the man on my right – the husband of a dear friend, and it is such an honor to pray for him and his family. Then I turn to Rhema knowing that Brandon has already petitioned God on her behalf, like Jairus falling on his knees, he’s taken her and lifted her up. As she hums beside me, I am overcome. Because it is a gift, such a precious gift to pray over my daughter and trust that I am heard. Just simple, heartfelt prayers of a mama as a new school year begins. And it’s the best and all I have. I know too well that the dark days will come, so I ask Him to be with her and hold her in the ways I can’t. That she would know Him near. My heart is filled with all the reasons for joy and hope; God is not limited by “nonverbal autism” and He speaks her language perfectly. She’s His.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope…” ~Rom. 15:13

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Adirondacks

“I am what you would call ‘indoorsy.’” ~Jim Gaffigan, on camping

Well, I thought I’d share some pics from our vacation earlier this summer.

The husband ordered up a weeklong getaway for the family to a place called Camp of the Woods in the Adirondacks.

Now. I am a luxury hotel, fine dining kind of girl. So you can understand why I might have a problem with a destination called Camp of the Woods.

The husband assured me that we would not actually be camping, that we would be staying in a lakeside cabin equipped with beds, a refrigerator, stove, etc. We’d eat in a dining hall for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He said, “We will not be roughing it.”

What he failed to realize is that my definition of the word ‘camping’ is totally different from his. If (-and this happened of course-) I pull back the bedcovers and find a chunky spider sitting under the pillow … and get this… I’m not surprised to see the chunky spider sitting there… then I am indeed CAMPING.

Looking back on it now I can say that our accommodations really were nice but it felt like ‘roughing it’ to me and I might have had a tiny bit of a bad attitude and maybe acted like a big baby for the first day or so. Just maybe. Because my visions of vacation are me lounging on an island beach, eating, sleeping, reading, repeat.

This was me the first night. I wasn’t keen on sharing the bed with Mr. Spider and his homies so I wrapped myself in Rhema’s plastic mattress cover that we’d brought from home!

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In the end we had such a great time going on little adventures together, enjoying the beauty of our surroundings, hearing great speakers and incredible music, I forgot to care about the fact that it didn’t fit my grand dreams of vacation.

We did things as a family we’ve never done before. We rode a gondola to the top of a mountain. Played ping pong. Attended concerts. Took a boat ride. Hiked to a waterfall. Built sandcastles and had a carnival on the beach. The Camp of the Woods staff was wonderful, and I’m probably not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition but I can’t think of a better way to say it: we felt ministered to.

All too often God takes my plans and expectations and shows me He has something better, something I need more. I was reminded of a favorite Emily Colson quote: “It’s time to throw out my ideas of what I thought life would be, should be, and let joy fill up those brand-new vacancies.”

Rhema certainly had times when she struggled, but I think she would say it was worth it. Throughout the trip I tried to jot down reasons to be thankful, things I never wanted to forget. The first one occurred when we were driving on an open road in the mountains. The air felt so good and the beauty of creation enveloped us. A song was on the radio – Multiplied by Needtobreathe. Rhema began clapping. On her own. No one guided her hands or held them together. She clapped to these words:

God of mercy sweet love of mine
I have surrendered to your design
May this offering stretch across the skies
And these Hallelujahs be multiplied…
These Hallelujahs be multiplied

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Hope pulled a question out of The Dinner Game box as we were cleaning up the kitchen. “Grandma, this one’s for you,” she said, reading aloud. “Can you remember the first time God felt real to you?”

My mother-in-law thought for a moment and replied, “Well, when I was young I wanted a bicycle. I really, really wanted a bike and I prayed for one. And that’s when I learned that sometimes God can say no.”

Hope and I waited.

Finally Hope prompted, “And…?”

Grandma said, “Oh, that’s it.”

“That’s it? But you got the bike, right?

“No,” she said. “I never got the bike.”

We scratched our heads as she walked off. The first time God was real to her was when he said… no?

In Rhema’s ten years of life I’ve had many, many prayers for her. Some of those prayers were prayed for her even before I knew she would be mine.

These days my biggest prayer is for a good day. Just a good day. One in which she can smile and hum, participate in life and enjoy the love of those who love her. Yes it’s true, I often wish it were easier for me and Brandon and Hope. Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup. Ps. 16:5

But more than anything I wish… I pray… it was better, easier for her.

And honestly most days, it seems, the answer is no.

But I think that sometimes when I love and pour myself out for my daughter and my only “reward” is a painful headbutt, that God is telling the story of how He gave Himself for me and forgives and loves me over and over again.

For the times my head says I should be “all better” by now, but the heart still breaks, God is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18).

For years of unchanging circumstances and unanswered questions, He is doing something and the whole story is yet to be told.

For  moments when there is no strength left, yet somehow strength comes… I love you O Lord my strength. Ps. 18:1

Maybe that’s what Grandma meant. When you want a thing so bad, and the answer is no. And God is not all you think he is. No, He is real, more real than He’s ever been, and sovereign and good. Don’t always feel or see it, can’t explain it, but my gosh, you believe.

Lord, I pray for a good day. And in the land of No, I will hold my girls and whisper that You hear their hearts’ cry, that You never leave and You love them even more than I do. We’ll take our mess, our No days, and look to you to make something so beautiful…

Seen

“What is the price of two sparrows–one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.”
~Matt. 10:29

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A couple days of video-EEG monitoring for Rhema in the hospital. Tethered to this room. I imagine people in white coats sitting in a control room correlating patient behavior with seizure activity in the brain. I imagine them watching – with a bowl of popcorn – the antics in Room 916.

They see Rhema eat a blue marker tip.

They see me eat three cupcakes.

They see Brandon stand in front of the camera, put on his shades, flex, and smolder just for them.

They see us pray.

They see Hope cry because she doesn’t want to leave her sister for even just one night.

Caught on camera is a great view of my rear end (and the three cupcakes that attached themselves to said rear end) as I spend half an hour kicking and fighting with the chair that’s supposed to turn into an extra bed. They see me when I turn and do a few fist pumps when I finally get the darn bed assembled.

They see me kiss Rhema’s cheek about every 15 minutes.

Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come? Why should my heart feel lonely and long for heaven and home? When Jesus is my portion. A constant friend is He. His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me. Yes, his eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.

Tethered to this world and to these bodies. When she hums and giggles and screams and jerks and cries and we don’t understand, she is seen. When her sister willingly, joyfully does everything she can to love and help her family, she sheds quiet tears, and she is seen. When her father pours himself out for his family, fights the frustration and then deeply longs just to have a conversation with his 10-year old girl, he is seen. When I do the things that only a mother can do for her developmentally delayed child day after day, year after year… I can’t help my heart – it misses the things she misses, and I am seen.

I heard a message last week from Priscilla Shirer. She said everything I already knew, and yet it was everything I needed to hear again about overcoming the discouragement that had secretly, painfully settled in my soul. She said that it’s no small thing. That the awesome God who makes something out of nothing every moment, who lays the foundations of earths and causes the morning stars to sing and launches lightening and carves canyons and paints the skies, sees me. Sees her. Sees you.

I realized this in a personal way that day. Rhema had not slept through the night in weeks, constant shrieking for days. I felt like breaking, “sleep-depraved” as my mother would say. At the end of the seminar, Priscilla prayed and in one line of the prayer she said something like ‘Lord, please give sleep to the sleepless.’ And a couple tears leaked from my eyes (because I was indeed sleep depraved and) I knew in my gut that in a world, in a country, in a state, in a mountain town, in a lecture hall full of people, my God had come to me and seen me.

She sleeps...

She sleeps…

She gave this name to the LORD who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.” ~Genesis 16:13

Home home

Hope, age 2, "looking for Daddy" through the mailslot when he was deployed in 2009-2010.

Hope, age 2, “looking for Daddy” through the mailslot when he was deployed in 2009-2010.

Just a quick update-

Brandon returned home from deployment last week and we have been enjoying the time together. Hooray!

The girls and I had planned to meet him at the airport but he was delayed by several hours. My good friend Gail willingly came over and stayed with the girls – almost until midnight – while I picked Brandon up at the airport. This homecoming was different. He was not in uniform. He traveled alone. There were no crowds or signs, no ceremony. No newspapers or news cameras this time. Just me and him.

It was the best way. The first time he deployed to war over ten years ago it had been just the two of us at an airport… (well, actually my dog Ronald had been there and Rhema was in my belly, but we’re just counting the bipedal adults…).

Now things seemed to come full circle for us. He walked over to me and gave me a hug. He sighed heavily, “We made it another year. No more.” It was a promise. And I simply said, “Ok.”

Two kids, three deployments and what seems to be a lifetime of ups and downs, pains and joys, we were back to just the two of us. Making peace with all the life lived apart and what it cost us. Looking ahead to a new chapter.

The quiet homecoming made me think of a favorite story:

A missionary couple, after years of faithful service overseas, was returning back to the States. They returned to the New York harbor on the same steamship as Teddy Roosevelt. Upon their arrival in the harbor Roosevelt was greeted with great fanfare – a brass band, reporters and photographers, firecrackers were set off. And this aged missionary couple, health broken and spent in their service for Christ, walked off the gangplank and through the crowd, unmet and seemingly unknown. As they walked, a tear trickled down the husband’s cheek.

“What’s wrong?” his wife asked.

“My whole life I’ve given to serving God. We’ve spent ourselves for Jesus and nobody is here to greet us. There’s no bouquet of flowers for you.”

His dear wife thought for a minute and then said, “Honey, we’re not home yet. We’re not home yet.

 

In the coming months Brandon will begin the process of retiring from the Army. It will be quite a change for us – I’ve only always known him as a soldier – but it’s a welcome change. I’m thankful, so thankful for the chance to finish and begin again, for whatever God has for us next (we give our lives to Him), to live and love and work together until we’re Home home.

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*Thank you so much for the prayers and encouragement this past year! 

if Thou keep me many a day

“I will stand at my watch…I will look to see…Yet I will wait patiently for the day…” ~Habbakuk 2:1

We are down to days.

Many years of being a military spouse has taught me that nothing is for sure in the Army… but I think this deployment is finally coming to an end. Honestly? I feel like I’m crawling toward the finish. And when I get there, instead of doing a victory dance, I think I’ll just fall asleep. Yeah right there at the finish line. Don’t pick me up. Just bring me a pillow and some blankets!

I hope I will let myself take a deep breath and put aside my concerns about schedules, work, changes and the whole re-integration process. I suspect my apprehension will fall away and joy will overtake as soon as I see him home, safe, laughing with Hope, holding Rhema’s hand, making up for lost time.

I turned back the pages of this old blog and found some things I’ve shared about deployments and reunions of the past. At every turn God’s faithfulness sings out to me. Brandon and I have been physically (and sometimes emotionally) separated for years at a time, and God so gracious, has stood over the process of us reorienting ourselves back to each other. Time and again He helps us find our way, as a family together, again.

Because of this I believe with all my heart that God in a marriage can do anything.

Mind if I share some snippets this week??

The following was written in 2009, at the beginning of a 14-month deployment. But the events actually occurred 10 years ago (!)… and still, we wait. And the waiting is precious.

I’m waiting for a call.

A call to say that he has arrived safely in Kuwait.

Even as he goes out, I am already thinking of his coming in.

I think back to five years ago when a handful of spouses gathered in an old gymnasium in Katterbach, Germany in the dark of night. There were babies and small children, and wives who were suddenly decked out in their best clothes. We were waiting… like the ten bridemaids of the Biblical parable, we were waiting for the groom, with oil in our lamps.

I’ll never forget walking into that gym and seeing the signs that caused a lump to form in my throat.

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The first thing I did was to check the manifest. To see, for sure, if my beloved was on the list. He’d said that after a long, hard year he was coming home. But in the Army, you just never know what might happen, so I stared hard at the list until I found his name. And when I did, I bounced an 11 month-old Rhema on my hip, and let my heart rest for the first time in a good while.

The hours dragged on and we chatted, laughed, traded babies and tried to be patient.  Around 2 in the morning, the announcement came that Bravo Company, 3rd of the 58th – deployed in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom – had landed on the kaserne. While in Iraq, they had set up an airfield for coalition aircraft in Saddam Hussein’s hometown of Tikrit, and now they had returned to their home away from home in Katterbach.

It would still be hours before we could see them, as they had to take inventory and turn in their weapons. It seemed like forever.

Then a screen descended, the lights went out and a music video played.

The song finished, the screen was raised… and then we saw them. A small, weary company of air traffic controllers, led by my husband. Before being released to their families, they stood almost humbly, in formation. You could hear the tears.

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I know they were praying, quietly thanking God along with us. Thanking God with all their hearts that not one of them, not one, had been lost.

So here am I again. Waiting… for a homecoming.

While I wait, I am aware that we are all waiting for something.

May your waiting make you stronger.

May you know His peace that passes understanding… while you’re in the in between.

May you know His love surrounds you,

May He be your portion…

in the waiting.

This I pray.

“Now, Lord, not my will, but Thine be done. I know not what to do; I am brought to extremities, but I will wait until Thou shalt cleave the floods, or drive back my foes. I will wait, if Thou keep me many a day, for my heart is fixed upon Thee alone, O God, and my spirit waiteth for Thee in the full conviction that Thou wilt yet be my joy and my salvation, my refuge and my strong tower.” —Charles Spurgeon

U heart I

It’s a warm and beautiful evening and my daughter’s whole body displays her efforts to navigate the day. She’s rocking the Medusa-meets-Afro Puffs look, her hair is uneven due to the fact that she pulls it out when she’s upset. There are large dark circles under her eyes – attributed to allergies or the fact that she’s had trouble sleeping the past several nights. She has hiked her pants up Steve Urkel style – she’s never quite comfortable – and wiped them down in ketchup, popsicle juice, cheese curls. Her darkened arms still healing from the last round of self-biting, her hands still stained green from the marker she colored with at 3 am. Her eyelids are heavy now, the sleep med I gave her beginning to take effect.

I’ve stared at her nearly every day for ten years and I still can’t take my eyes off her.

A week ago we had escaped to a quiet room during church. She scribbled all over her paper and then wrote U <3 I. Before she could scribble over it, I grabbed the paper and held it to my heart. Later when I eagerly showed it to Hope she casually said, “Oh I write that all the time when I color with Rhema. She did it independently, huh?” Indeed it was exciting that she mimicked Hope, but the air wheezed slowly out of my balloon. I reminded myself that these things, most things, for Rhema only come after long periods of focused effort and repetition. And the breakthroughs – as sweet and earth-shattering as they as are – can be here today, gone tomorrow, if not continuously practiced and reinforced. U <3 I. Symbols on a page, not yet meaningful.

I walk her through the bedtime routine. As I do every night I say her verse, Romans 10:8,9 – The Word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart… If I push her, get in her face, hold her hands and say “night night” several times she will eventually repeat the words. But at the end of the day I don’t want to put any more demands on her. We have made peace with the silence. I tell her goodnight, she glances in my direction and says clearly, intentionally, “Nigh nigh.” There’s a hush as if the whole world stops to listen. Tomorrow I will go back to wondering about how she thinks and feels about everything she experiences and what she understands, but tonight she will give me words and help me understand.

“Love you.”

“Lo ew.”

“Love you.”

“Lo ew.”

“Thank you, Rhema.”

She pulls the covers over her head.

And I stand there for a long time at her window as the last sun fades like a great symphony quieting down, so beautiful you never forget the sound.

By day the LORD commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life. ~Psalm 42:8

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