trusting God with my children

The crisp air of dusk fell over me like a blanket as I walked toward the parking lot of the campground at The Great Stone Door campground. I found Matt talking with a tall muscular man. The sun had begun to set and all around us creation invited us to rest and play. Matt and the stranger spoke as if they had known one another for years in the unhurried cadence of a campground. Brent, I came to know, is a fireman for Davidson County.

"He's invited us to go rappelling tomorrow with him," the corners of Matt's mouth turned upwards as he spoke to me. 

Rapelling. Hmmmm. I learned that Brent is an instructor in rescue using rappelling. He literally teaches other firemen how to rappel and how to save lives. He brought a few families with him, and he said they would all be rappelling the next day. All three of his kids were going, ages 15, 13 and 10.  

I spent the night excited and worried. Rappelling. 172 feet of sheer bluff. Only strapped in by a rope. A thin rope. Ok and a metal figure eight thingy and a harness. 

My boys, Sam (7) and Josh (13), wanted to do it. They lit up around their eyes when we mentioned it. Of course, Sam said first, "What's rappelling?" 

The next morning we ambled over to the site our slow pace belying what we felt inside: raw fear and excited energy. The ropes lay about us like so many snakes. People ran to and fro. Brent took charge like the President in the war room. Children ages 6 to 16 strutted about in harnesses. And the ledge loomed before me sapping strength from my knees.

The McMurrays are keenly familiar with this spot. Stone Door is one of our places. For the past 16 years, our family has explored, adored, and held as sacred this amazing state park. The story goes that Indians used it as passage to travel from the valleys up to the Cumberland Plateau. Stone cliffs overlook ravines vast and dotted with colorful trees. This spot only two hours from our home offers us perspective. We are reminded our place in God's story and in His creation. 

Eventually we made our way to the bottom of the ravine and watched the drama from below. "Well, boys, do you want to do it?" Matt asked with the same twinkle in his eye from the night before?

"YES!!!" they shouted in stereo.

They do not take after their mother. 

I reclined on a large boulder without budging and held tight to Skip, our dog. 

Joshua lead the way for the McMurrays. He backed over the ledge like a Navy Seal. As soon as he unhooked he wanted to go again. Samuel went next. I looked up to see him coming down using his right hand. My crackley weak voice called out, "Oh, he is a lefty!"  It was too late. He was over the edge. You wouldn't have known the way he handled that rope.

I am afraid I cannot explain to you how I felt sitting there 172 feet below them watching them go over the edge of a cliff. My thirteen-year-old hopped out on a ledge under the instruction of a stranger. My seven-year-old boy dangled above me, and I was helpless and powerless. 

I began to question my trust of the muscular stranger in the parking lot. We didn't check his ID. We didn't ask for a certificate. We didn't even ask him to demonstrate once we got to the site. 

I thought about how I have a hard time trusting God with the stories of my children. I compared that to the way I somewhat blindly trusted this man. My Heavenly Father has shown me time and time again His faithfulness to me. He has proven Himself over generations. And yet at the first sign of pain or difficulty, I tend to cop a stance and start with the questions.

This unveils my arrogance. Surely I know what is best for my, MY children. 

Each boy rappelled twice. Matt even went once. My clothing was just inappropriate for a rappel - saved by the Nike running shorts! Rappelling ended up on the "high" list of our fall break. And the deeper message about how I trust God or more accurately, how I often don't, will linger a while longer. 

blessing of God

The words of the Aaronic blessing offer us a powerful glimpse into the heart of our God and our own desire. All of us at our core wish to have God’s blessing upon our lives. We all wish to see God face to face and feel His love and acceptance of us. 

As I have been musing God’s gaze upon my life, I encountered these words in Numbers 6. The blessing goes like this:

The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

God gave these words to Moses to give to Aaron (the first high priest) and his sons to give to the Israelites. They were embarking on their journey through the desert. This is the first time the Israelites were “numbered.” They were numbered some 40 years later when they finally did go in and claim the land.

This speaks to me because God knew they would fail. Even with these powerful words of blessing upon them, they chose their own way and chose not to trust their God. God disciplined them for 40 years. 40 years. All the time with his face shining upon them.

Our God, an Artist, delivered this blessing in an artful poetic form to his children. The structure in Hebrew is important. Line one has 15 letters forming three words, line two 20 letters for five words, line three has 25 letters for seven words. The language builds in emphasis. 

And so God’s kids started out a journey doomed to “failure” with a poem. In my mind’s eye I see haggard and bedraggled old Israelites wandering the desert. Their shoes in tact but what of their souls? They must have wanted to give something to their kids, the next generation. Something different. I picture them kissing their children goodnight and uttering these words over them willing them to believe. I conjure up visions of them struggling through heat, snake attacks, human-eating earthquakes, plagues and clinging to this poem at the very center of their being. 

I imagine their last breaths surrounded by this next generation of warriors uttering the words of faithfulness. He is faithful when we are not. 

This poem held them together at their center. This poem grew around it another generation of believers who were courageous, obedient, conquerers. 

I wrestle with my flesh and the principalities and powers to accept these words. I desire to know deep down in my center that God loves me and his face is turned toward me. He is brimming with love perfected by the death and resurrection of his Son. I am becoming more and more aware of the places that don’t believe. I offer those parts a seat at the table of grace. Pass the poem. Munch on these words. Let them become a part of you. Believe. Pass it on.

And I say to my sons, He is faithful when we are not.

gaze of God

At the heart of the Universe, God wears a smile. 

For weeks now, I have mused the gaze of God upon my life. It all started when we studied the life of Peter in my small group. I came to believe that Peter’s life pivoted when Jesus gazed at him after his third denial. Jesus looked at him and knew him and loved him. There in the mess of Peter’s greatest failure, Jesus met him. He did not look away. He did not shrink from Peter. He did not even give Peter up as a fraud. 

I remember a time when this shift began in me. While on the mission field in Honduras, I began to understand that God loved me even in my greatest failures. I think the change in God’s expression - more accurately the change in my perception of God’s expression - marked me. And since then, I have come to believe that God uses my brokeness more powerfully than anything else.

I’ll never forget the day Donnie came to our clinic in Honduras. His mother and grandmother brought him wrapped snugly in a blanket smelling of smoke. The people of the mountain where we lived,  Rincon de Delores (corner of pain), had no electricity. Often they did not even have running water. Donnie was the fifth child of his family, and he had cleft lip and palate. At first I could not discern which woman was his mother. One held him and did all the talking. She clearly loved him and meticulously fed him with the tiny bottle they brought. She often asked questions of the other woman, the one with her head down in shame. This one would not meet my eyes. She seemed to want to run. She hovered near the door. 

I took Donnie in my arms and began to examine him. His thin arms and legs told a story of the difficult time he was having. He was close to being dehydrated despite being fed. His lungs rattled with fluid. He did not have fever. As I asked questions about how they cared for him, I discovered they fed him while he was lying down. Bottles are rare in Honduras. The women did not know that Donnie was likely aspirating the milk. I taught them how to feed Donnie correctly. 

As I examined him, I talked to Donnie and told them how wonderfully made he was. I praised him for his strength and his courage to fight for his life so far. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the mother (the shame-filled one) soften. The corners of her mouth began to turn up just a tick. She could not take her eyes off her baby. 

She returned to see me over the years never with the other woman. Donnie grew and thrived. He eventually had surgery and all that was left of his wound was a small hairline scar. 

This interaction marked me. For the first time, I saw my lack of gentleness in myself toward myself. I would never have told this mother - just let Donnie tough it out. As I modeled kindness, she shifted and the love she felt for Donnie conquered her shame. 

I began to embrace the broken and crusty parts of myself. I asked Jesus for grace to wrap my arms around the entirity of my life. I began to see His grace equally in joy and in pain. And I invited the weaker, frightening, frailer parts of myself to the banquet of grace. 

As I muse the life of Peter, as I muse the interaction with precious Donnie; I see God’s gaze toward me. His loving gaze changes me. It changes my face. As my face looks to Him, it is radiant and will never be covered in shame. 

flea markets & friendship

Sixteen years ago this month, Matt and I drove around our cul-de-sac, and a covey of children stopped our car with questions. They jumped out of a tree when they spotted our car and broke up like ants in an ant bed. They asked us if we had any kids. How old is he?  Are you going to buy this house? Where will he go to school? What grade? 

A few days later we moved our meager belongings into our home on Whalley Court and a long chapter of history began in our families. Those kids belonged to Tammy and Marla. Since then Marla has moved out of the neighborhood and then back in. Our family moved to Honduras for four years. We rented our home and moved back into it in 2006. Whalley Court proved to be a soft place to land even for the bruised. Tammy retained her sentinel corner address keeping careful watch over the sacred cul-de-sac. 

Saturday Tammy escorted us to the flea market. Yes, escorted. Marla and I are no seasoned shoppers. Tammy could lead you through the flea market in her sleep. 

The flea market is a sub-culture all its own. The self-expression surprised me. We passed a twenty something girl with purple lips (I don't believe she was cold) and pink hair with a bird's nest sitting atop. I caught myself staring mouth agape several times at hair. I could do an entire post on hair at the flea market, but it would not be as worthwhile.

On the way over we checked in on our families: recent marriages, marriage prospects, dating relationships, two surgeries, unemployment, new business ventures, loose front teeth and ongoing car repairs. We conducted all this mental health business in a Town and Country minivan in the time it took to get from home to the flea market, and we didn't even write each other a check. We could save a lot of money on therapy if we did this once a month.

Each of us had one specific item to buy: a desk, a chair, a dresser. We followed our fearless leader in and out of aisles, coves of tables, buildings, and a few concessions. August in Tennessee seems like a horrible time to shop outside. It is. We poured sweat and then enjoyed a reprieve in the air-conditioned buildings. The lemonade tasted extra sweet and fresh after sweating for several hours. The kettle corn, well, it's kettle corn. Who can turn that down even with dirty hands? The nurse in me thought about the germs but the hunger and the sweet and salty won out!

We found Tammy's chair at the first stop. She started bargaining with the vendor. I felt pretty suave when I mouthed to her "I like it!" instead of saying it out loud and ruining her process. I murmured something about having most of this stuff in my garage. They knew it. You don’t hide your junk from true friends.

The second purchase was not on the list. In fact, it was an emotional purchase for $18. My grandmother, Momice, always sat on a stool at her island. Impromptu visits or family feasts found her ruling court from that stool. 

My face gives away everything so I sent Tammy in to bargain. We only got $2 off. I told her I was happy to pay full price. See my problems with bargaining at a flea market?

Quickly I found the dresser - right color, right price. Instead of a desk, we picked a table bar-height that can function as either. Plus, the child can take it with him when he launches. Brilliant. The man selling the table/desk wore his shirt open his shoulder-length gray curly hair swung around as he moved. I’m marrying off my daughter tonight. “What are you doing at the flea market!” We all three chimed in three-part harmony. 

We breezed by the Fiestaware shop. Tammy found a lucite chair for $35 that she later discovered regularly sold for $180. Men may think it is all about the bargains. That’s what we tell them. We know the mystery of friendship is sealed over a bargain. Oh, I’m not giving away any secrets. How many men would have read this far? 

We unloaded the booty at Marla’s. When we went to unload mine a straggly bouquet of black-eyed-susans adorned the back hatch. Tammy gasped, “OH! We took home some of Marla's flowers!” 

I grabbed them up from the back hatch and tossed them into a bed in my front yard. "Maybe I'll have some black-eyed-susans next spring."

Even if I don't, seeds were planted in my heart. The harvest is promising. Friendship springs in our hearts.

the launch

I posted this three years ago. Today I am honoring those of you who are launching children to college. Here is our story.

On the day that we moved my oldest son to college, I walked into his room among the boxes holdinghis future. “Hey, want me to help you make your bed?” I asked smiling. We tidied the covers and I tucked his teddy bear in among the pillows. 

We drove east into the rising sun and Vol-land. The pit of my stomach turned and rumbled as I joined the throngs of parents pushing loaded carts vying for elevators. The dismal and exhausted dorm room has welcomed students since 1965. We packed as much warmth into it as we could leaving the white walls a blank slate. 

A college friend of Matt’s from Knoxville offered us respite in his beautiful home. Some of the most tender steak I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating settled my rumbly tummy. The fellowship warmed my weak heart. A few months earlier we had spent the weekend with Woody and Jennifer. We had told him Matthew may be attending UT. He smiled, took a sip of his cold beer and said, “You know if he does come to UT, he’s mine.” I’ve never heard such comforting words. 

On Matthew’s first night in the dorm, I spent a long and restless night at Woody’s with Matt and Sam. Awake from 3-4 a.m., I listed the things we could do to bring some life to the cell of a dorm room. Up to now, the males had given me a lot of flack. Being as I am outnumbered in this family, it added up to quite a bit! Boys don’t care about a dorm room. Boys don’t need it to be beautiful. Mom, (eyes rolling) I don’t care what comforter I have or if it matches Sean’s! But now everyone was brainstorming!

Sunday morning early, we arrived to the dorm early and dragged Matthew out of bed. We headed to the equivalent of Mecca for new dorm residents: Walmart. Zealous parents and students had ransacked the place. No hangers. No cork boards. A kind employee dug in a box to find shower curtain rings. 

Back at Alcatraz, I mean Massey Dorm, we added the Walmart-touch and the place livened up. As I placed pictures on the wall, Matt said, “It’s time to go.” Matthew’s tour of campus began in 5 minutes. “But can’t we just stay here and work on the room while he’s gone?” 

“No,” Matt said. No explanation.

“Is it against the rules?” I stammered.

“It’s time for us to go,” he gently reassured. 

We all rolled out the door into the hall with the force of a tsunami. There next to the elevators sat 8 or so freshman young men with the RA, Hunter. Awkward. We quickly hugged goodbye and I boarded the elevator with Rhode Island in my throat. I had been told not to look back. Afraid of what may happen if Rhode Island broke up, I checked my flip flops. On the ground, I kicked the gravel and spit out, “That was just awful.” Matt agreed. 

“We don’t have to leave on that note,” we both agreed. We decided to eat and return for a better goodbye. Now, if a parent had asked for my advice in this situation, I would have said, “Leave. Go on home.” Reason did not have the wheel.

Amidst tears, we found our way to the Old City, a quirky and whimsical part of Knoxville. “You have not told me about these shops,” I accused Matt. 

“These were not here when we dated 20 years ago,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

I texted Matthew: We have a gift for you. Can you meet us after the tour to pick it up?

Shameful. We had visited the bookstore and bought him a lanyard for his keys. For me visiting the all-orange store traumatized me even more. I am an Ole Miss girl by heart. 

We proceeded as planned since we did not hear from him. Funny how my texts and calls are not answered even though the phone grows out of his right palm. He may have been strategizing: how can I get them to leave?

At last, the phone rang. “Mom, I’m pretty busy. I have something else at 4.” 

“We just wanted to say goodbye over. That goodbye was terribly awkward,” I explained. “It will only take a second.”

Our Odyssey roared back to campus. There on the corner sat Matthew with his tour. He hurried over to our car. We tried to park out of the way and out of sight certainly out of earshot. I said the things I wanted to say without an audience. Hugged him. Touched his face. Matt gave him a huge man-hug. We drove off. Again. 

Tomato Head Restaurant offered yet another respite. Good food is a comfort. Lazy Magnolia Southern Pecan Ale is brewed in Kiln, MS. From the first drop on my tongue I felt the love. Apparently, it is the only beer in the world made with roasted pecans. I needed a Mississippi touch. Outside, Sam danced in the water fountain. Then, we headed west: home. 

Some things remain private. The ride home. The tears. The talk. The snorts. 

The family who kept Joshua lives on one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the country. We rounded Del Rio and the stunning sunset bade us welcome.

The next morning I awoke before the sunrise aware of an emptiness in my gut. I’ve been reading a book about getting in touch with the gut: the seat of emotions, the home of the soul. I stealthily stole out to the patio. As I wrote in my journal, the pages turned golden under the sunrise. I checked in with the gut. Warmth, fullness, life. The emptiness is true: I miss Matthew. 

The life is truer. 

So much of parenting is negotiating endings, the unceasing process of disconnecting the strings that tie our children to us, preparing them for a life on their own. That has always been the ache and beauty of it for me – taking the deep breath and trusting somehow in the goodness of life, in God, in something beyond myself. – Sue Monk Kidd

Update on 08.17.2013 by gigi

One of my best friends will be taking her oldest child to college today. I want to remind her and all of you launching those arrows today that it's gonna be ok. IGBOK. It's hard to believe that I posted this three years ago. As I write this update, Matthew is asleep upstairs. This summer is the first that he did not return home. It was right. It was what he needed. It was lonely. I felt his absence. He is here for another few days before returning to Knoxville. We are drinking it in.