I don’t know how God does it.  Every day He holds his hand open, allowing us to stay or go.  Every minute He is in the process of letting us go, leaving us to choose a path towards him or away from him. The reality of this is sobering and convicting.  And utterly amazing.

My oldest son has slept with a blanket and a small stuffed walrus nearly every night of his life.  Tomorrow he turns 13 and as I tucked him in tonight, he announced that he won’t be sleeping with them anymore.  While I understand his decision, it is a symptom of something much larger.  He is growing up.  He is moving consistently towards self-sufficiency and capability.  And that move, unfortunately, is necessarily away from me.  He is leaving a little and I have to let him go.

Letting go is so hard.  It is, without exception, the hardest element of my job as a parent.  Tonight, as I close another chapter, I am longing for the past and grieving the move forward.  The thought of packing away a much loved blanket and a walrus leaves my heart heavy.

Of course the hope is that as I let my children go, they will, in some intangible way, remain tethered to me.  That as they journey and experience life, their hearts will linger at home.  I imagine that this is the hope and heaviness God wrestles with constantly.  As he holds us in the palm of his hand, there is the persistent truth that we are free, at any moment, to walk or run away from him.

In Luke 15, Jesus tells the parable of the prodigal son and the father in the story leaves my soul humbled and thankful.  I imagine the father sitting in the kitchen when he sees his son in the doorway.  As his son speaks and requests a blessing to leave, the father fights to maintain his composure, shell-shocked by what he’s hearing.  What can the father say?  To follow his heart would be to say no, to refuse his son the blessing.  But to follow a greater love for his son would be to let him go in hopes that he would someday soon return.  So, with an anguished heart, he lets him go.

Perhaps that night he leaves the porch light burning, hoping the son will come to his senses and return.  He lies awake listening for the sound of his son, for the echo of a shoe on the gravel driveway, for the screech of the screen door.  But nothing.  Days go by, nothing.  Weeks, nothing.  Months, nothing.

I am convinced that the longer the son was away, the more urgent the father’s worry became.  I wonder if there was ever a moment that the father wasn’t thinking of his son.  How many times during those long months did the father rise in the middle of the night, go to the window and strain his eyes for the shadowy figure of his son?  How many mornings did he wake up, pack a bag, and start down the road only to realize he couldn’t continue?  How many hours did he spend wondering, waiting and wishing?

Then one day, the son comes home.  I like to think it was one of the nights the father spent at the window.  I imagine him, eyes searching the horizon until he sees a shadow.  An animal?  A man?  Maybe a wandering traveler.  But this figure looks familiar.  There’s something about the walk – the way he swings his arms and length of his strides.  The father rubs his eyes, anticipating the vision to leave, but it doesn’t.  He steps onto the front porch and there is no longer any doubt.  His son has returned.

The father runs through the darkness setting off a series of chaos and commotion in the neighborhood.  Neighbors are peering out their windows, some standing on their porches.  They watch their dignified neighbor sprint down the street still wearing his bedclothes.  They are intrigued as he reaches his son with outstretched arms, nearly knocking him over with the weight of his emotion.  They stare as he weeps.  But the father is oblivious.  He doesn’t notice the lights on around him, the open doors and windows, or the row of suspicious neighbors.  He doesn’t see their puzzled expressions.  He sees only one thing – his son.

Just like the son in the parable, we have the opportunity to leave.  It is the blessing and curse of free will.  We can leave when we choose.  However, we can also return when we choose.  That is perhaps the greatest and most glorious promise in the story of the prodigal son.  Although God may let us go, he also remains steadfast in his waiting for our return.  While we may wander off, he never does.  He is always watching and waiting for our homecoming.

Letting go is painful.  It is heart wrenching. But I am so grateful for the example God gives.  As I let my children go a little bit more every day, I will take my cue from my heavenly Father.  I will look to Luke 15 and the glorious depiction of a father who lets his child go with grace and welcomes him home with love.  I will count on that example in the coming years.  I will rely on it to give me the strength to hold my arms open. To hold them open each day, ready to release my children into their own futures, but equally ready to receive them back home.

I have a box in my closet full of notes and homemade cards from my middle child, Nathan.  Most of them say he loves me and some are filled with accolades and praise declaring me the best mom in the world.  There are thank you notes for cakes I’ve made or gifts I’ve given and even apologies for misbehavior.  The contents of that box are priceless to me.

The truth is, that many days, they are the only evidence or acknowledgement I have that Nathan truly loves me.  Nathan is not demonstrative in his love.  He never has been.  He doesn’t give physical affection the way I wish he would.  The only hugs I get are when I redeem a “hug coupon”, which he gives out rarely and sparingly on particularly good days.  He refuses to allow me to comfort him and shies away from my embrace.  Every night I tuck him in and say the words I’ve been uttering since the day I knew of his existence: “I love you Nathan”.  And every night, there is silence.  I’ve grown accustomed to not hearing a response, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting just a little.

In addition to his lack of affection, Nathan can be a difficult kid.  He is moody and reactive.  He is prone to anger and tears when things don’t go his way. He is as dependable as an oak tree, but his flexibility is nil.  Bending his will is a near impossibility.  And it is so trying for our entire family.  When things don’t go according to plan, he tends to leak anger and lash out at those around him.  He yells at his sister, quits games with his brother and snaps at my husband and me.  And then there are consequences, followed by tears that he will not allow me to wipe away.   It is heart wrenching to see him break and shatter over the smallest things.

Suffice it to say that there is not always a tremendous amount of visible or tangible reward in loving Nathan.  There are days I am exhausted, both physically and emotionally, from trying to navigate the tumultuous waters that make up my son.  My son.  And there it is.  He is mine and that is enough.  Despite his moods and his challenges, he is my child and that is sufficient to produce overwhelming love for him.  I look at him sometimes and I am overcome with affection and marvel, just because God has seen fit to entrust him to me.  And while most days he is a magnificent and impossible puzzle, he is my puzzle and I am grateful for every piece of him.

One of the most profound benefits of Nathan being mine is that I see pieces in him that go largely unnoticed by others.  The first and foremost of these is his heart.  As evidenced by the notes I keep, Nathan’s heart is both immeasurable and unfathomable.  Tonight, that heart was displayed magnificently.

Today was Election Day and I did not vote.  Due to an unfortunate combination of some previous obligations, a significant miscommunication and confusing misinformation, my vote went uncast and I was greatly discouraged by it.  But in the wake of my frustration and disappointment, Nathan gave me a far better gift.  Seeing my sadness, he constructed a small voting booth in his bedroom and invited me to cast my vote.  I was moved to tears by his compassion.  And I was reminded of Matthew 5:7.  “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.”

As usual, I did a little digging and while the verse is fairly straightforward, the Greek word used for merciful resounded loudly.  The actual word is eleemon, which is derived from the root word eleeo.  The word means “to compassionate by word or deed, specifically by divine grace.”  This is precisely what my son did tonight.  He showed compassion through word and deed.  He saw my heart and rose to the occasion.  He put love into action.

My husband and I like to say that Nathan is an enigma wrapped in a mystery.  There are days that he drives me to the highest heights of frustration.  Then there are moments like tonight.  Moments that he rushes over me with the deepest complexities of love and compassion.  And I am so glad that he is mine.

I am confident that my love for Nathan, despite some of his less than desirable qualities, is just a sloppy shadow of what my God feels about me.  Like Nathan, I am often unlovable.  I can be difficult and ungrateful, stubborn and unbending.  But also like Nathan, I am loved, not because of what I can offer, but simply because I am His.

I love the way God loves me.  I love that I am His.  I love that because I am His, He looks past all my inadequacies and sees what is best about me.  He extends grace and finds me lovable.

I struggle with anger.  It seems like it’s always there, just below the surface.  I leak anger like a rusty watering can leaks water.  When life is stressful, when I am overwhelmed, when my expectations aren’t met, my anger bolts to the surface and shoots shrapnel in every direction.  Just the other day, I instructed my kids to watch our new puppy while I went upstairs and got dressed.  It was an easy task, which I expected them to execute.  They didn’t.  Instead, I came back downstairs to messes in the living room and hallway.  I exploded.  And while my reasons were legitimate, my reaction was all wrong.  This became painfully clear when my children melted into tears in the middle of my tirade.

This pattern is exhausting and damaging to those closest to me.  It is exhausting to me.  In the wake of my anger, I find myself begging for forgiveness, apologizing for my failure, promising to do better next time.

But at the end of the day, I don’t need conviction.  I don’t need a reminder of my iniquity or an unfiltered perspective of my stains.  I have that covered.  I am well aware of my insufficiencies.  I also don’t need verification of God’s love and forgiveness in spite of this failure.  I am confident and secure in my position with God.  What I need is hope.  Hope for change.  Hope that instead of simply doing better, I can be better.  I need a promise and a path that assures me that my anger doesn’t have to define or dictate me.

The first step in that journey came a few hours later when I picked up my oldest son from a church youth retreat.  After getting in the car, he informed me that he had forgotten to pack a number of things for the retreat, namely socks, underwear, pajamas and a swimsuit.  In contrast, while neglecting the essentials, he packed plenty of games and puzzles for free time.  As he and I revisited his packing process, I mentioned to him that, in hindsight, he had paid too much attention to what he wanted instead of what he needed.

Isn’t that true of all of us?  Most of us are guilty, time and time again, of paying attention to what we want rather than what we need.  We fight tirelessly to attain what we desire while what we need slips right through our fingers.  And the truth is, we rarely get what we want.  People rarely behave as we’d like them to.  Our expectations are seldom met.  And we get angry.

Perhaps if we put more energy into what we need rather than what we want, things might change.  That morning, what I wanted was for my children to display responsibility.  While that’s a worthwhile aspiration, it’s certainly not what I need.  What I need is for my children to know that when they fail, my love for them is still intact.   I need them to know that their home is a safe place.  I need them to grow up joyful and whole, knowing that my approval is not tied to their behavior but, rather, it is rooted in their hearts and spirits.    Tragically, all that was needed was lost in the messy pursuit of what I wanted.

Philippians 4:19, says “And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”  Some translations also use the word “fill” instead of “supply”, but I don’t think either word does the original translation the justice it deserves.  In the original Greek, the word is pleroo, which implies “very full or saturated.”  Carrying it even further, the literal translation is “to cram, as in a net.”  God will saturate our needs.  He will take the net we have woven with all of our needs and He will cram it full.  I love the word cram.  I think of a middle-schooler’s locker or a toddler’s toy box.  It brings to mind my husband’s workbench or my baking drawer.  They are crammed full.  They simply cannot hold another thing.  That is exactly what God desires to do for us.  He doesn’t just want to fill our needs, He wants to cram all that we need into our lives until we are spilling over.  Until we simply can’t contain the blessings.

I am convinced that the key to putting my anger to rest is to let go of what I want.  To take my net, turn it over and let all my wants and desires come tumbling out.  I have to empty my hands and heart of what I crave and hold them open for God to pour in what I truly need.

I am extremely proficient and accomplished at saying yes.  In fact, I’ve nearly turned it into an art form.  If you need me to make something for a bake sale, my answer is yes.  If you ask me to be a room mom, I’m your girl.  If you are looking for someone to lead a troop, cook a meal, or volunteer, my answer will most certainly be yes.

Unfortunately, my perfected craft has some downfalls.  While I am so busy saying yes, I find that I inevitably have to say no to other things.  To good things.  To things that are infinitely more important.  If my child asks me to play, my answer is usually, “I’m busy right now.  Maybe in a bit.”  If a friend wants to have lunch, my answer is, “It’s a busy week, let me check my calendar.”  And if God tugs my heart and whispers a call in my ear, my regretful response is too often, “Not now.”

In Daniel 1, young Daniel and his three friends are taken from Jerusalem and carted off to Babylon.  There, under the rule of King Nebuchadnezzar, they were offered the food and wine of the king.  However, the extravagant diet they were offered did not conform to the requirement of Jewish law.  And so, the four young men politely refused and, after a bit of negotiation and a heap of divine intervention, they were allowed a 10-day trial period during which they ate only vegetables.  At the conclusion of this time, their physical condition was inspected and scrutinized and they were found “better in appearance and fatter in flesh than all the youths who ate the king’s food.”

So at the end of the day, Daniel and his friends not only survived on less, they thrived on less.  They said no to things that were, by all logical definition, better than what they had and they flourished.  They accepted less and gained more.  I expect that if I apply that same principle to my own life, God will also allow me to thrive.  I imagine that if I reduce my extraneous commitments, he will rein upon me the blessings of less.  After all, if I reduce the noise in my life, the voices of request and the petitions for my time and attention, by extension, there will be more room and opportunity for His voice.

Psalms 127:2 says, “It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives to his beloved sleep.”  What I find especially interesting is that the Hebrew word for “eating” in the verse is akal, which, translated more accurately, means “burn up, consume or devour”.  I don’t know about you, but I find that many days I am not merely eating the bread of toil, I am devouring it.   So much of my time is literally burned up with the stress and anxiety of a “to do” list.  Far too often, I consume toil like it is my last meal.

But what if rather than being the poster child for the first half of that verse, I changed my strategies?  What if I chose to follow Daniel’s example and strove for less, hoping to attain more?  And what if in doing that I received the glorious promise in the second half of Psalms 127:2?  What if, just for a change, I rejected the bread of toil and accepted the divine promise of rest?

I need less and more in my life all at the same time.  I need less of what is unnecessary and so much more of what is essential. The shift is so hard.  I want to be involved.  I want to help.  I want to be useful.  But the truth of the matter is that being excessively involved, helpful, and useful in earthly arenas limits my ability to be available in heavenly ones.

In this season of my life, God is teaching me a painful lesson.  He is teaching me the value of no.  The amazing benefit of less.  The heavenly truth that often times, less truly is more.  And as I learn the lesson, I am looking so forward to not just surviving on less, but thriving.

I had another blog planned for today.  In fact, I had most of it written and was getting ready to post it until something happened tonight.  An exchange I had with my 6-year-old daughter caused me to bump up against a truth that I cannot escape from and my heart simply will not rest until I let it live and breathe within me.

My two sons are exceptionally intelligent.  My oldest has been doing multiplication since the age of 4 and has had the aspiration of becoming an astrophysicist for nearly five years.   My younger son is extraordinarily gifted in both academics and art and excels quickly and easily.

Meanwhile, my daughter, who is in kindergarten, is trying to memorize seven sight words this week with little success.  We have gone over and over and over them and she seems to retain nothing of what we rehearse.  I review a letter with her at least a dozen times only for her to forget it within the following minute.  And tonight, as I tried desperately to help her learn the word “he” to no avail, my patience evaporated and my anger erupted.  I yelled and blamed.  I accused her of not focusing, of not trying, of not caring.  And as my tongue wreaked havoc on her little spirit, she burst into tears and became inconsolable in the face of the failure I had charged her with.  Suddenly, the weight of what I had done came crashing down and I held her, profusely apologizing and confessing.

Shortly after that I asked my oldest son if he heard what had happened with his sister.  He said he did and in a moment of profound discernment, he asked me, “You’re worried about her aren’t you?”  I confessed I was and asked him what he thought I was worried about.  He responded confidently and clearly, “You’re worried she’s not smart.”  In that moment, faced with that truth, I fell apart right there in his room.  As tears streamed quietly down my face, God’s truth about who my daughter is came raining down.  What if she is not smart?  Will I love her less?  Will she be less special?  Will God’s plans for her be less profound or powerful?  Of course, the answer to all these questions is no.  The truth of the matter is that intelligence is not an attribute that God values, it is something the world values.  And I have fallen again into a perfectly laid trap, buying into the lies about what counts, what matters and what is esteemed.

As these revelations made their way into my thoughts, I reflected on my sweet daughter and God reminded me of all the glory he has infused her with.  She is an exceptional creature.  She is magnificent in her joy, immeasurable in her love and extraordinary in her kindness.  She is a wondrous and stunning display of God’s grace and beauty, both inside and out.  And while these attributes may not win her a scholarship to Harvard, they will without question win the heart of God.  And at the end of the day, that is all that counts.

Jeremiah 9:23-24 says, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom, let not the mighty man boast in his might, let not the rich man boast in his riches, but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me, that I am the Lord who practices steadfast love, justice and righteousness in the earth.  For in these things I delight, declares the Lord.’ ”  In the original Hebrew, verse 24 is astounding.  Different from the words for boast used in verse 23, the word for “boast” here is halal.  And this is where it gets amazing.  The word halal can be translated as follows:  to glory, to celebrate, to shine.  To shine.  I love that.  God is delighted with us when we shine in our understanding and knowledge of him.  When we shine in love, justice and righteousness, He is most pleased with us.  And it is that very shining that draws others to us.  It is the light of his love that radiates, invites and compels.

My daughter shines.  She loves God and credits him with all good things in her life.  She thanks him for princesses and puppies, sweets and swingsets.  Her tender spirit reflects his heart consistently and contritely.  I don’t know if she’ll be intelligent by the world’s standards.  She may be.  She may not be.  But in any case, God has shown me tonight that the world’s standards do not apply to the heart.  He has reminded me without doubt that what he values is far superior and valuable.  He has graciously allowed me to witness the magnificent shine of his creation and I am humbled by the privilege to call her mine.

This summer has felt much more like winter and in the past few days, I have become ravenous for some sign of spring.  Since early May, it seems like loss has closed in around me like a thick blanket of snow and ice.  First, our friends lost a baby in a tragic turn of events.  Six weeks later, a friend lost a 12-year battle with brain cancer followed by another dear friend who was called home after enduring 5 years of a blood disease.  To top it all off, just a couple weeks ago we had to put our 14 year old family dog down after watching her health decline rapidly over the last several months. As if all that weren’t enough, some emotional losses have been at the forefront of this season as well.  In one week I will send my youngest child off to kindergarten and I will mourn a different kind of loss.  Last, but not least, these warm summer days have brought the end to some friendships that I believed were much stronger than actuality revealed.

In all of this, I have wrestled with my own sadness, and watched those around me reeling with grief.  As I attended our friend’s visitation, what could I possibly say to his widow and three daughters?  Tempted to ask if they needed anything, I knew in my heart the question was inadequate and empty.  Of course they need something.  They need their father and husband.  They need to see him, hold him and finish life with him.  The intensity of their grief seemed immeasurable.  But in that very instant, something else immeasurable occurred to me.  It struck me that perhaps the depth of their sorrow is only matched by the depth of God’s love and comfort.

From there, the revelations came fast and furious and right in the midst of them came the truth of Newton’s third law.  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” What Newton found to be true in the physical realm seems to be just as true in the spiritual one.  For every human emotion we experience, God has an equal and opposite reaction.  When we sin, the expanse of our regret and remorse is powerfully countered by the great expanse of God’s forgiveness.  In the times that we are desperate to hear God’s voice above a raging storm, He is just as desperate to reach us in our pain and anguish.  Days that we find ourselves in rebellion, running fast and furious away from His arms, I believe God is pursuing us just as furiously and feverishly.  And in our darkest moments, when we feel most alone and lost, God is most anxious to reveal His presence and comfort.  An equal and opposite reaction.  Our darkness reveals His shining moments.  Our caverns and valleys give way to His appearance on the mountain pulling us out of the mire.

The Bible is full of stories in which God reacts to dismay, failure, and desperation with equal amounts of peace, forgiveness and hope.  When Noah received a flood, God sent a rainbow and a promise.  When Esther reached for courage, God responded with protection and provision.  And perhaps, most profoundly, when the disciples grappled with the death and ascension of Christ and an unknown future, God sent the Holy Spirit.

During this season of loss in my own life, I’m not sure what God’s reaction will be.  But in any case, I’m looking forward to it.  If the depths of my sorrow are any indication, then I can trust that his equal and opposite reaction will be spectacular and glorious.  I am convinced that in the presence of the deaths I’ve experienced, God’s display of life will be nothing short of miraculous.  I love that I have a God who exercises love and mercy at every turn.  A God who responds to our abundant desperation with an abundance of grace.  A God who takes Newton’s genius to a whole new magnificent level.

Most of the stories in the Bible are about the doers and the goers.  The pages are filled with stories of great men and women who heeded the call and followed God into the heat of battle whether figurative or literal.  Noah built an ark, Moses led a people to freedom and Esther made the wager of a lifetime.  David fought, Peter preached and Paul globetrotted while declaring the gospel to all corners of his world.

What you don’t find a whole lot of in scripture is stories about the ones who stayed behind.  The equippers and enablers don’t get a tremendous amount of press.  I wish they did.  I wish there was a story about Peter’s wife as he went off to preach to thousands at the Pentecost.  Did some part of her long to accompany him?  Did Solomon’s best friend occasionally ache for just a bit of his notoriety and glory?  As Miriam walked alongside her brother Moses, did she ever feel a pang of jealousy wishing her role was greater, her impact more notable?  Maybe not, but I like to think that somewhere along the way, some of the ones who stayed behind felt a sadness at their position and wondered when it would be their turn to go, to do.

I am ready for my turn.  I am a stay-at-home mom and by extension, I am usually left behind.  The last twelve and a half years of my life have been spent equipping and enabling my children and husband to realize their potential and chase their dreams.  I have also supported friends around me as they pursue their passions.  I have watched kids, donated to mission trips and embraced the role of prayer partner from my living room.  As family and friends have adventures and blossom in their respective arenas, I cheer from the sidelines and wish them well on their journeys. They are going.  They are doing.  And it feels like all I am doing is laundry and dishes. Don’t get me wrong.  I love my children and I have no regrets about the choice I made to stay home and raise them. But I find that I am now in the autumn of this journey and I am anxious for what is next.  And my heart aches.  For adventure.  For impact.  For something more than my normal.

In the midst of all of this, I took my usual course and scoured scripture for some clarity, some reassurance that I am where God wants me.  I came upon one of my old favorites, the story of Mary and Martha.  I have generally felt that I am much more of a Martha.  Perhaps due to the mention of preparation and serving, it seemed that much of my time was spent being a Martha.  Today, however, I see the story in a new light and it gives me hope.  If I look at the example in a larger light, I can liken Martha to those around me that are going and serving and doing while I, Mary, sit home.  But although Mary is sitting, it is where she is sitting that is significant.  She sits at the feet of Jesus.  And she listens. I’m sure that Mary got up later that day.  I’m sure she worked and went and did.  But at that moment she recognized her opportunity to spend time with her Lord and she seized it.  And it occurred to me that maybe this is exactly what is before me right now; an opportunity to sit, an opportunity to listen, an opportunity to be still and be available.

I find that amazing things happen when I am still.  The day my good friend left for Africa was the day before my husband left for eight days.  I was feeling lonely, left behind and small.  I decided to call another good friend that I hadn’t spoken with in months.  As we spoke, God’s timing was revealed and I was awestruck.  The night before the phone call, my friend had made a very difficult and sad life decision and hadn’t been able to process it with anyone.  And in that moment, we both realized that God had made me available that morning for her.  He had stilled my life so that I might be led to that very instant.  So that I might listen to his leading and be obedient.  And as I listened to my dear friend weep and lament what was coming, my heart tore for her and yet, I was profoundly grateful for the intersection of our lives at just the right time.

It makes me wonder if Martha would’ve missed that.  Would she have been so busy being busy that she would’ve learned weeks later what had transpired?  I’m certainly not minimizing Martha’s passion to serve.  There are times for that.  Countless children of God have gone, have led, have fought and because of them the gospel has reached millions.  Going and doing is critical, it is necessary and it is admirable beyond words.  But for me, for now, I need to learn to rest in being a Mary.  I need to see being left behind as a blessing rather than a burden.  I need to take this energy I use lamenting my lot and use it to steer my heart towards God.

I am certain that I will go.  Someday.  I will pursue my passions and have adventures beyond my wildest expectations.  But today I will sit.  I will be still.  I will be available.  I will listen.

A couple weeks ago I attended the very last preschool program I will ever attend for my children.  Come August, I will send my daughter, the youngest of my three children, off to kindergarten and a new chapter will begin.  Although the imminent onset of a new journey is exciting and promising, the closing of this chapter is riddled with sentiment and sadness.  And as I sat watching my five year old sing silly songs and tender ballads, I found myself grieving much more than her last preschool program.  I found myself grieving all the lasts that I’ve inadvertently missed along the way.  It’s a funny thing about lasts.  They’re so easy to miss.  This is not at all the case with firsts.  Most of the firsts my children experienced were well documented and celebrated.  Their first tooth is tucked safely away in a keepsake box.  Their first words are written in scrapbooks and recalled regularly.  First steps, first days of school, first dances and first friends have all been acknowledged and recorded.  But the lasts?  They have been sorely overlooked and tonight I long to revisit them.  I don’t recall the last time my 12 year old called me mommy or when he lost his last tooth.  I don’t remember the last time my 10 year old let me hold him on the couch or hold his hand as we walked. And I couldn’t tell you the day my daughter stopped mispronouncing her brother’s name or decided she no longer needed me to catch her on the slide.  I wish I did.  I would give a great deal to know those moments and give them the farewell they deserved.  But the truth is, you just don’t see the lasts coming.  How do you know when you send your child out the door one morning that it will be the last time he or she comes running back to give you a hug?  How could you ever anticipate the last flower they will pick for you or silly picture they will draw?  And who would ever be able to predict the last night you read your child a bedtime story?  All these things are milestones and rites of passage I would have liked to record or at least recognize.

As I look back, however, I am deeply grateful for that wonderful group of servants who have shared with our family so many of the firsts and lasts.  Teachers.  They are really a remarkable group.  They are the markers of time and our children’s biggest fans.  Each year they equip, encourage and raise up a group of children and love them despite the reality that their time with them is measured and short.  They love them as their own and do so, not because of obligation or necessity, but because of passion.  I have never once met a teacher who is in it for glory, notoriety or financial gain.  Every teacher I have met teaches for the love of it.  And more importantly, for the love of the children she shares his or her day with.

In Matthew 18:5, Jesus says, “Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me…”  I wonder sometimes, if Jesus had teachers in mind when he spoke those words.  Frankly, I believe it is the heart and soul of a teachers calling.  They feel a tug on their hearts to become the physical hands and feet of Christ and they lovingly give themselves over to the mission.  They humbly add brushstrokes to a great masterpiece they may never see completed.  They gracefully weave beautiful threads into the tapestries of our children knowing full well they will not witness the finished work.

I cannot accurately convey my appreciation for my children’s teachers.  A simple thank you seems wholly inadequate.  I am profoundly grateful for the unconditional love they display; for their commitment to receive each child that comes their way; for their sacrificial willingness to be Christ to the children around them; and for their unwavering dedication to celebrate the firsts, the lasts, and each remarkable moment in between.

I just learned today that some friends of ours lost their unborn baby at 27 weeks.  In the words of my friend, their “hearts are shattered.”  At the same time, another friend’s wife is steadily approaching the doorway between this life and the next.  On top of all that, a third friend with a terminal illness is grappling with saying goodbye to his wife and daughters as God’s call home becomes louder and louder.

I hate death.  I hate its grip on us.  I hate its power to steal our joy and rob our hope.  And as my heart struggles to rise amidst all of this sadness, I have been trying to put my finger on a few things.  While the finality of death is staggering and tragic, there seems to be much more to the grief it brings.  Several days of thoughts swimming in circles in my head have led me to this conclusion.  Death is the culmination of the terrifying fear that lives inside us all. The fear that we are alone.  The fear that at the end of the day, we will find ourselves painfully and unmistakably alone.  Furthermore, I believe it is that very fear that drives us to God.  We were never created to be alone.  From the very beginning, we were made and intended to live amidst community, both divine and human.  Therefore, when death robs us of our inmost need, our innate ache to walk hand in hand with those around us, it is like a betrayal.  We pour ourselves into relationships, into friendships, into marriages, and we derive immeasurable comfort from the safety we find there.  And then death comes raging in and we are suddenly lost.  We are suddenly alone.

But there is something magnificent that happens in death.  I wouldn’t call it so much a consolation as a glorious display of grace.  Currently, our friends who lost their baby have 147 comments and messages on their Facebook walls.  Our friend who is grieving the imminent loss of his wife has an email update and prayer distribution list that has dozens and dozens of recipients.  And our friend formulating his farewells has seen friends from all avenues of his life rush to his side with comfort and strength.  And I am amazed at this juxtaposition.  It would seem that as death approaches, relentless and unforgiving, it is at this very moment that the body of Christ comes magnificently to life.  As earthly death creeps in and creates a paralyzing vacuum, God overflows our lives with community and love.  As death inhales our hope and joy, God exhales grace, strength, and comfort through His hands and feet on this earth.  And in that magnificent instant, in that breathtaking display of mercy, death’s threat of aloneness and isolation loses a bit of its sting.  It’s not that the grief goes away.  It’s still there, powerful and gripping.  But amidst the loss, there is a flood of fellowship, communion and solidarity that moves us graciously towards healing.

I hate death.  But I love the way God’s family responds.  I love the uprising and stirring of hearts that occurs.  I am humbled by the tears shed in the name of someone else’s pain.  I am moved by the weeping and petitioning that ripples through the church. And I am in awe of the transformation that the body of Christ undergoes as it moves swiftly and profoundly to fill the void that death leaves behind.  There is no consolation when death is involved.  God knows its power far better than we do.  But what a kind and sovereign Lord we have that He would see our grief and provide divine countermeasures that assure us that we are loved, that we are safe, and, most importantly, that we are not alone.

Gerbera daisies are my favorite flower.  Their big blooms and vibrant colors always seem to draw me in and make me smile.  Generally, I purchase the blooms already cut in the floral department of my local grocery store.  The other day, however, after a Home Depot run with their dad, my kids brought me home two potted Gerbera daisies.  They handed them to me and I was struck by something I had never noticed or realized before.  Gerbera daisies are not pretty plants.  Truth be told, they are fairly ugly.  Their leaves resemble something much closer to a weed than a flower.  They are jagged and rough, a stark contrast to the soft smooth flowers they surround.  Only when the stunning, captivating blooms open is the true beauty of the plant revealed.  And it’s easy to miss.  If you catch a plant too early, before it’s had a chance to unveil itself, you might easily mistake it for a much lesser flora.

Lately, I have felt strangely like a Gerbera daisy plant.  Over the past couple days, there have been some in my life that have judged me by my leaves.  They have seen little that is redeemable or lovable in me and have simply dismissed me.  They have called me ugly and accused me of being hard and rough.  To say the least, it is extremely painful.  As I stand listening to the words used to describe me, I want to scream, to shout, to state my case loudly and clearly.  “You aren’t looking close enough!  You aren’t seeing all of me.  You are missing the very best parts.”  And I want to beg them, plead with them, convince them to wait.  If they would only hold their judgment and wait patiently they would see that there is vibrancy beyond the baseness, there is softness amidst the roughness and there is beauty despite the ugliness.

I think one of the richest, most affirming passages in all of scripture is Psalm 139.  From first verse to last it is full of promises and glimpses highlighting the glorious intimacy between God the Father and His creation.  And sandwiched in the middle of that chapter is verse 14.  “I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”  As I read this verse today, my heart swelled with hope while my eyes welled with tears.  I dug a little deeper in hopes of finding further meaning.  It was revealed in the word “wonderfully”.  One of the possible translations of the Hebrew word for “wonderfully” is “show marvelous”.  As I read those two words, it stopped me in my tracks.  “Show marvelous”; or show extraordinary or splendid according to Webster’s dictionary.  And again I was reminded of the daisy.  Despite it’s ugly leaves, if you wait patiently and give it a chance, it will most definitely show itself to be marvelous.  If you look past the unappealing mess that encircles the heart of the plant, you will be struck by just how marvelous it is.  And I am hopeful that the same is true of me.  I am hopeful that just as God shows the Gerbera daisy to be marvelous and splendid, He will show me to be the same.  That amidst all the unsightly tangles surrounding me, He will complete me, reveal me and show me marvelous.

I am anxious for that day.  I am anxious for the moment when those around me will see a marvelous work rather than a mess.  I’m afraid it may be a ways off.  Unfortunately, my blooming season is probably in the distant future.  Most of what comprises me now is far from splendid or extraordinary.  But I find great comfort in the hope and the promise.  I find such delight and grace in the fact that my Creator sees what is marvelous in me and finds me worthy.  And for today, that is enough. Today I will do my best to disregard the comments and judgments directed at my awkward growth.  And I will quietly prompt those around me and encourage them to wait for my blooms.  To be patient and look more closely.  To see me through God’s eyes and perhaps they will get a glimpse of the marvelous that is waiting to unveil itself.