Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

The Time Is Soon

Ethan’s Dad: Eight years. It has been eight years since we last saw Ethan — experienced him — alive. Eight years since I heard his cry: he would wail, scream, go on for quite a while, but also sigh. Eight years since I felt his breath. It could be halting and shaky, but it also could be very gentle. Eight years since I fed him those bottles of milk and formula. That was always difficult for me. I felt that I could never get him to drink enough. It was not for lack of effort — he tried very hard — but there was almost always some left. The best part of that was when he was finished and was tired. When he slept peacefully, he was like an angel. Eight years since I saw those eyes open: those dreamy, contemplative eyes that always gave the impression he was thinking about something interesting. I wish I knew those thoughts. Eight years since feeling his warmth. He liked to be held close. It was his love language because he could not yet really speak.

It has been eight years, but the time is relative — it both flies and crawls. It flies because in one sense it feels like an instant since that moment of loss happened; that time is frozen in our hearts. It crawls in the sense that each day without him aches, and we long to see him again. But the reality is that we live in this present time, each next moment, without him. God asks us to go on because our journeys in these earthen vessels are not finished. We have not spiritually matured to the point of being ready to see Him, which means we are not able to see him yet either. No matter how much we may wish it, we cannot change this reality.

It makes me think about the difference between how God experiences time versus how we do. Several of the stories I read to our kids revolve around altering time. Characters are able to jump back and forth — unwind, rewind, or see what is coming ahead. Of course, that is all fiction. God has made us to traverse time in one direction, always moving forward. But God does not experience time that way.

I recently finished reading C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader to our smaller kids. In it, there is a scene in which one of the main characters, Lucy Pevensie, interacts with Aslan the lion, who is (for those who may not know) an allegorical stand-in for Jesus in the Chronicles of Narnia series. At the end of the scene, Aslan tells Lucy that he must leave her, and he says:

“Do not look so sad. We shall meet soon again.”
“Please, Aslan,” said Lucy, “what do you call soon?”
“I call all times soon,” said Aslan.

That exchange is a not so veiled reference to Jesus’ words in Revelation 22:12-13 in which He says: “Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

“Soon” takes on an enlarged meaning because of what Jesus says about Himself being before and after all other things. In Revelation 1:8, Jesus similarly says, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.” In the same chapter, verses 17-18, He says, “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive forever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.” Just before Jesus ascends into heaven at the end of His first coming, He gives the disciples the command to go tell everyone about Him, and He adds: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:20.
In the Old Testament, when God speaks to Moses from the burning bush, Moses asks God:

“Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ Then what shall I tell them?”
“God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: I AM has sent me to you.'” Exodus 3: 13-14

Unlike us, who experience time as one forward horizon, God is present everywhere, all at once. This is why He knows the future and can speak with certainty about it, and why He can speak to anyone at any time. Lest you think that God has it easy because He is not immersed in time as we are, think for a second about what it means to see everything and to be everywhere. Could you or I handle the immensity of that? I know that I sometimes feel an almost overwhelming sense of dread when I read the news about all the calamities that happen around the world every day. It is too much for us to digest. Even though we only experience remote harms second-hand, the sheer number of them burdens us. Think about if you were there for each and every catastrophe — for all-time, throughout history. In that light, the fact that we live in time and have no choice but to move on to the next moment is a blessing because we do not continually or infinitely live through any moment all the time.

But God also chose to willingly experience time as we do when Jesus was incarnated. In that earthly life, you could practically hear Jesus’ heart breaking when he lamented over Jerusalem: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” Matthew 23:37. When Jesus came to Lazarus’s tomb, He openly wept — twice. John 11:35 & 38. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus tells His disciples: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” He then prays earnestly: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet, not as I will, but as you will.” Matthew 26:38,39. Jesus then goes to the Cross and experiences an agonizing and excruciating death that includes separation from God the Father. In all of those moments, Jesus knew the future, but He experienced time as it unfolded, just as we do, and so He felt as we do.

Likewise, when Jesus healed those in need, He made them well for their remaining time on earth; He did not rewind time such that those people never experienced the pain, harm, and loss they had known up until that time. He renewed and redeemed those individuals, as much on the inside as the outside, but they still carried with them what they had lived in their brokenness before they had met Him.

Why am I getting into all of this about time — for God and for us? Because in these past eight years there have been countless times that I have wished I could go back, or I have wished I could have known what was going to happen, so that somehow, some way, Ethan would still be with us. I particularly do this on each March 10th.

But we all do this for certain points in our lives, don’t we? Our fascination with time travel boils down to wanting to fix things, to make right what has gone wrong. We do not want to retrace our steps, but rather to redirect them. But we are not made that way or for that purpose.

In that same exchange between Aslan and Lucy in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, a little before the part I quoted above, Lucy asks Aslan if she has messed something up to the point that it can never be the same again, and whether it would have been different if she had not made the mistake. Aslan answers:

“Child, did I not explain to you once before that no one is ever told what would have happened?”

There is no “what if?” because there is no going back. For us, there is this moment, and the next, and the one after that. And what happens matters, for this earthly life and the heavenly one. This is why Jesus said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me,” which paradoxically connects directly with His command “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth …, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.” Matthew 25:40; 6:19-20.

I cannot undo our loss of Ethan. I cannot unwind the pain and misery and missed opportunities of all we do not get to experience with Ethan for the rest of our days here. But because each moment in time matters — as do the losses that accumulate with each day that passes — Ethan’s presence here for even that brief two-month time eight years ago also matters. He matters and he cannot be erased because Ethan is a child of God. “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” 1 John 3:1

Yes, the knowledge that God is always present both hurts and helps. It hurts because it means He was there in that moment, and yet He did not stop it. He had the power to halt it or to unwind it, yet, for reasons we cannot know, He did not. But it also helps because it means God was there from the start.

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
“If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
“If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,’
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
“For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
“My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
“Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.”
Psalm 139:7-16

God created Ethan. He created him with a purpose and a destiny. Part of that purpose was to be with us, even as exceedingly short as it was, and for us to love him and him to love us. We do not know what our lives would have been like if he had stayed with us, and we are not meant to know. But we are told where Ethan is and where, one day, we will be.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may also be where I am.” John 14:1-3

So, when, exactly, is that? “He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.'” Revelation 22:20. Yes, to Jesus all times are “soon.” It is not so with us, but we are meant to live as if that is the case — as if time is both present and imminent — happening soon. With the help of the Spirit, we are to become like Him as much as it is possible in our present, earthly, time-bound existence because then, one day, we will be like Him. “What we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when [Jesus] appears, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as he is.” 1 John 3:2. And we will see our Ethan too, at which point soon will be now. “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.” Revelation 22:20.

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

Entering In

Ethan’s Mom: “What is some of the deepest suffering you have experienced, and how did you cope through it?”

Those words have been staring me down this week.  The question is number 4 in this week’s BSF lesson, entitled “Perseverance in Suffering.”  There is about an inch of white space underneath in which to write an answer.  Who among us can describe their suffering and coping strategies in that much room?

After five days of sitting down to work on my lesson only to walk away after a few minutes of staring at it, I have finally come up with an answer:

“See blog.”  

Since the inception of this blog, it has been a safe place to process our thoughts about suffering, grief, and loss.  The loss of Ethan, primarily, but also the myriad of secondary losses we experience as a result.   I don’t know that anyone out there reads this consistently or anticipates hearing from us, but that’s OK.  We have viewed the blog first and foremost as an outlet for us.  It is a blessing, but not necessarily a goal, for others to benefit from our writings.  

All that to say, I’m not sure anyone has been sitting around thinking, “I wonder why Ethan’s parents don’t post as often as they used to?”  But in case you have, it is not because our hearts have healed.  That is one thing I don’t like about the wording of the above question – it is in the past tense.  How did you cope through it?  I cannot be the only one who would rather it use the present participle – how are you coping through it?  

I last held Ethan in my arms in the early hours of March 10, 2017.  If Jesus tarries, as the old Baptist preachers say, I will live the rest of my days longing to hold him again.  There is no earthly end to this suffering.

Of course, daily life does not look the same as it did this time seven years ago, coming up on the first anniversary of March 10th, for many reasons.  Seven years ago, I had to make an intentional effort to enter into joy, and even then it was for brief moments at a time.  Grief was a constant companion, always right in front of my eyes no matter what else I tried to look upon.  But life didn’t stop – specifically, the needs of my four living children continued.  We had help from friends and family, but I needed to care for them as much as they needed to be cared for by their mother.  In many ways, they were my gateway to the moments of joy my soul so desperately needed.  Jumping on the trampoline, making muffins, zoo outings, giving and receiving warm hugs – these were the means of grace that “brought my soul up from Sheol” and “restored me to life” (Psalm 30:3).  

Now, at times, I have to make an intentional effort to enter into sadness.  While the kids still bring me much joy,  we have moved into a season where their schedules dictate my schedule in a new way.  Instead of falling into place around a naptime, my day now centers around school and extracurricular activities.  Taking care of the four living kids seems more urgent than giving myself space to grieve.  Having a “sad day” here and there was a necessity then, but it seems like a luxury now.  Sometimes, it is easier to skirt around the edges as opposed to diving into the deep.   We have written on the blog about how difficult and costly it can be to sit with others in their darkest moments.  In some ways, I feel like it is also costly to sit with myself.  

I just can’t dash off a quick answer to the question in my BSF lesson in a few sentences or write an entire blog post in the carpool line.  Writing these posts requires quiet, time, and space to think – all things at a premium at this stage in the game.  I just counted, and I have 8 unfinished entries on my Google Drive. The phrase, “I should write a blog post about that…” rolls through my consciousness with regularity, but when I looked at the last few entries on the blog, I realized there wasn’t a single post between Ethan’s 7th birthday and his 8th birthday.  That breaks my heart a little.  

Speaking of his birthday, this year it fell on the first day back to school after winter break.  There aren’t many quiet moments for reflection in between making the magic of Christmas happen and cleaning up the aftermath.  Then Saturday before school started, we celebrated #4’s birthday with a party at a local rock climbing gym.  He deserves to celebrate with his friends, and I want to be able to give him that experience.  The only way that happens, though, is if I can compartmentalize my feelings about hosting a birthday party for him where none of the guests know he has a twin brother who should be here as well.  

Although I felt a little bad for thinking this, I was glad that I would have some quiet time while they were at school on the 7th.  I knew I needed to feel my feelings, but when the day arrived, I felt numb.  The temperatures were just above freezing, limiting our visit to his grave.  The house was in need of a thorough cleaning after two and a half weeks of everyone being home full time, and I couldn’t shake the compulsion to scrub all the bathrooms.  Then after school we ate birthday cake before all the regularly scheduled activities.  The day passed in a blur, and I hardly shed a tear.  

At my next monthly session, I related to my counselor how not crying on Ethan’s birthday really bothered me.  She put words to my feelings.  “You haven’t had a chance to enter in,” she said.  I am not used to thinking of grief that way.  For years, it crashed in like a tidal wave.  It still does at times.  A birth announcement, a conversation about the challenges of raising twins, an icy forecast – all of these and many more can bring strong waves of grief that knock me off balance a little, or a lot, depending on the exact circumstances.  The waves still come relentlessly, but not every wave knocks me down.  

I guess the world might look at this and call it healing, or closure.  I don’t think that’s quite it though.  I do need to enter into the darkness at times – if I try to ignore it through staying busy or just waiting until the “right time” comes, things do not go well for me and for those around me.  But I am not at the mercy of the darkness in the same way, either.  A sneaky voice whispers in the back of my mind: “Is this leaning too far into joy?  Am I leaving Ethan in the past?”

Love is eternal; pain is not.  One day, pain will be no more.  That is the real point of this week’s BSF lesson, but I had a hard time seeing that through all the attempts to rationalize and spiritualize our response to suffering.  As we move ever closer to the day when we see Ethan again, it is right to feel the balance tipping in favor of joy.  It is also right to fully enter into the sorrow.  Both are necessary; both are, in their own ways, good.  In the words of A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow, “For joy that denies sorrow is neither hard-won, nor true, nor eternal.  It is not real joy at all.  And sorrow that refuses to make space for the return of joy and hope, in the end becomes nothing more than a temple for the worship of my own woundedness.”  It goes on to remind us that we have a role model in our practice of holding the tension:

For this is who we are:
a people of The Promise –
a people shaped in the image of God
whose very being generates all joy in the universe,
yet who also weeps and grieves its brokenness.
So we, your children, are also at liberty to lament our losses,
even as we simultaneously rejoice in the hope of their coming restoration.

Every moment holy, Volume II

Maybe that is where the confusion lies for some who hear our story.  People assume we are angry at God and need to work through those feelings to arrive at a place where we can continue to believe and to worship Him.  They think that to embrace joy necessitates leaving lament behind.  They presume that finding peace and purpose in our suffering requires that we wholeheartedly accept God’s sovereignty and abandon our unanswered questions.  But it’s both/and, not either/or.  We are at liberty to lament and rejoice. I don’t know if anyone else needed to hear that – I sure did.  

Anywhere
By: The Gray Havens
Eyes wide late night windowsill open
There’s a shadow at my back saying everything’s broken 
So I pointed to a star saying that’s where I’m going
Second to the right then straight til’ morning
Praying in the dark please if you’ve got a moment
There’s a shadow in my mind says you’re never gonna notice
That I been dying inside I been trying not to show it
But I never want to feel this way again 
So take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
Ah take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care where 
Just take me anywhere
Anywhere but here 

I’ve been trying to keep the faith 
I’ve been trying to trust the process
But it just feels like pain, doesn’t feel like progress
And it seems like a waste if I’m really being honest 
I’ve been trying to fly away but I keep falling 
And Neverland keeps calling
So take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
Ah take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care where 
Just take me anywhere
Anywhere but here 

I could spend my nights
Staring at the sky
Dream of ways to fly away
Chasing happy thoughts
Or a better plot
While I lose another day
And what a tragedy
To awake and see
That I’ve never learned to stay
So bring me to a place
Where I don’t chase escape
Somewhere I could finally say
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere, anywhere 
Eyes wide late night windowsill open
Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands · 1 Comment

A Great and Marvelous Gift

Ethan’s Dad: Our boy would have turned 8 yesterday. Of course, one boy did turn 8 — our Noah — and I certainly do not take that for granted. It is a joy to watch Noah be happy, to watch his face light up when he receives a gift he loves. But it also hurts because there should be a boy right beside him doing the same thing — lighting up our lives with his wonder at receiving new things. Ethan is not here to offer us that joy which comes from giving him presents as a celebration of being part of our lives for another year. It is the eighth year we have celebrated this day without him because he never made it even to the first birthday. I do not know how to quantify such a loss of joy, but the absence is very apparent with each smile or gasp from Noah. I usually do not feel it in that particular moment, which is a small blessing, because then I would miss the joy that is there. But later, in the silence — after the party, the laughter, the cake, and the toys — the absence is there. It is a gnawing deprivation, a robbery worse than the grandest of heists.

It is also at that moment — in the silence, amidst the darkness, surrounded by emptiness — that I am reminded that it could be worse. How? That joy could have not come in the first place. We were not trying to have twins. We were not expecting to have twins. Initially, we were just excited that we would be having another baby at all. And then that sonogram showed two heartbeats rather than one. It was colossal news. I remember Ethan’s mom, for a second, thinking it could not be true. Yet there he was, and everything changed. We already had three children. But five? Yes, five — it turns out we were delighted with that. It required a lot of scrambling, recalculating, reimagining . . . and every bit of it was worth it. (I would give absolutely anything to be living the chaos of five right now).

Even so, it still almost did not happen. There is no need here to retell the whole story in this post, but Ethan was not in the correct position around the time of birth, and then he and Noah decided to pick the rare event (for Alabama) of an ice storm, of all times, to join the world. That precipitated the elegant bravery and unflinching fortitude of their mother to will them into this world, with just a little help from an EMT in an ambulance traveling on an ice-skating rink of a road. Honestly, Ethan beat some long odds just by making it that far.

And there was still more to overcome because, a short time later, we learned of Ethan’s heart defect. Again, this post is not the place to delve into all that was involved there. However, I mention it just to illustrate the point that nothing says we were ever entitled to be graced with his presence. Ethan was a gracious, unmerited gift, a blessing bestowed despite immense obstacles. He and Noah together gave us overwhelming joy. I truly thought I was the most blessed father in the whole world.

And really, I was. That is the reason it hurts so much. To lose the double nature of that precious blessing is excruciating. I cannot hold him, hug him, tickle him, light-saber battle him, shoot hoops with him, laugh with him, correct him, watch him fall asleep, or see the light in his eyes when he opens a birthday gift. Why would such a unique gift be given and then taken away in such a brief time? This blog is full of posts exploring that inscrutable question, and the probing will continue.

But I would not know the immensity of Ethan’s absence if he was never with us in the first place. “God does great things, and unsearchable, marvelous things without number.” (Job 5:9). “Many, oh Lord, are Your wonderful works which You have done; and Your thoughts toward us cannot be recounted to You in order; if I would declare and speak of them, they are more than can be numbered.” (Psalm 40:5).

The Lord did a great and marvelous thing in giving us Ethan (and Noah) eight years ago. He was thinking about Ethan when we were not, and He gave us Ethan without our asking for such joy because the Lord “is able and willing to do more than we ask or imagine.” (Ephesians 3:20). And He continues to think about Ethan. “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11). That Scripture passage is usually quoted as if it is some kind of high school graduation slogan. I will save all the reasons I think that is a misreading for another time, but presently I will observe that Lord is not talking about the here and now: He is referring to eternity. As much as Ethan’s absence here and now hurts, Ethan is living in peace with the Lord right now, and we soon will be. In the meantime, the Lord says to both to us and to Ethan that He “is in our midst,” and that “He will rejoice over us with gladness, He will quiet us with His love, and He will exult over us with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17). Amen. And Happy Birthday, Ethan.

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

Tracing the Rainbow Through the Rain

Ethan’s Mom: Each year, Bible Study Fellowship sets aside the last week of our class for “Share Day.” This is a week where all class members are invited to share what God has taught them over the course of the last eight months of intensive personal and small group Bible study. It provides a sense of celebration and of closure for the study. This year has been an intense one: People of the Promised Land: Kingdom Divided. This study has brought us through 15 different books of the Old Testament, as we studied the period of Israel’s history after King Solomon through the fall of Judah to the Babylonians in 587 BC.

The material was more intimidating, but the fellowship and bonding in our discussion group was the same as previous years. Saying goodbye to the group you have walked alongside since September is always difficult. This year, however, is even more of an ending than usual for me. Next year, I am going to transfer from the daytime women’s class to the nighttime women’s class. The daytime class has a program for babies and preschool children; the evening class has a program for school aged children and teenagers. Next year, I, my husband, and four big kids will all attend BSF together, in different small groups but meeting in the same host church. I am confident this is a transition that needs to be made, but goodbyes are always hard, even if they are right.

As I reflect on the ending of this study, my time with this class, and my role as a group leader, a verse from our study of Isaiah comes to mind. In Isaiah 25:1 the prophet says, “LORD, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago.” This post is my way of exalting God as I reflect and process through the ending of this study, my time with this BSF class, and my role as a group leader.

In a way, it is also a way of looking back and taking stock of my journey of healing this far. Saying goodbye to my BSF class feels very weighty because so much of my story as Ethan’s mom is all tangled up with my experience with BSF. I attended an orientation class in April 2016 to register myself, a 3 year old, and a 1 year old for the next year’s study. When I returned to the host church in August 2016, I brought my 3 year old, 1 year old, and a surprise set of twins in utero. BSF was one of the places I carried Ethan during our short time together.

The study in 2016-2017 was the book of John, and my group leader was Laurie. Our small group met in the Media Room of the church, surrounded by giant rolls of paper and baskets of craft supplies. After discussing the lesson, we would move to the sanctuary to hear the teaching leader’s lecture. That very first lecture included encouragement to remain faithful to studying God’s Word even when it didn’t make sense or left you with unanswered questions. Just act on what you do know and keep going. Those words have come back to me several times since that first lecture.

Studying John was a gift. The gospel of John has some distinctions from the three synoptic gospels, including the seven “I am” statements. That fall, I got to know Jesus in a deeper and more personal way by studying this particular book using the four step method of BSF. In the coming spring, I would need to draw on that knowledge more than I could have ever anticipated. I needed to know who He was in order to face the future that held unspeakable tragedy.

My group was also a blessing to me from day one. I was very nervous about the twins being born very prematurely, as I had issues with premature labor with all three preceding pregnancies. Laurie told me she was going to pray that the babies would make it to 36 weeks. I thought that was pretty optimistic but appreciated the sentiment. Just after the New Year, my boys were born at 36 weeks.

Two months later, Laurie and a couple of others showed up at our house with a huge basket of toys for the kids and gift cards to all manner of kid-friendly takeout or drive-through restaurants. I was so touched that they would see the kids’ needs as well as mine. Some ladies joined our meal train. Laurie watched #4 so that Ethan’s dad and I could visit the cemetery alone. One of the group members even took me out for a massage that summer, knowing from personal experience that grief is surprisingly physical in its manifestation.

Remember the teaching leader’s encouragement to just keep at it, even when you don’t understand? I returned to class much sooner than I think people expected. Just do what you know to do — well, by then what I knew and found value in was doing my lesson and attending class every Tuesday. The first week, our group was combined with another group due to Laurie being out. After the other ladies headed down to lecture, my group members circled up and prayed for me. I mean they prayed FOR me — I couldn’t even say “Dear God” much less speak any sort of coherent prayer, and they stepped in to offer prayers that I literally could not pray but wanted so badly to say.

The next week, our Scripture reading included the passage about Jesus’ burial. One of the questions was, “why do you think it was important that Jesus was buried?” I surprised myself by sharing my answer. “As a person who has recently spent a lot of time at a graveside, it is very important to me that he was buried.” As strange as it sounds, studying that passage of Jesus’ burial was the most meaningful thing I could have read soon after burying my son. I’m sure we went on to have meaningful discussions about the resurrection, but what stands out to me is that week we talked about how Jesus’ friends cared for his body and mourned the loss of his life.

The next study was Romans, from the fall of 2017 to the spring of 2018. To be honest, this is the year that is the fuzziest in my mind. I think that makes sense, as most of my physical, emotional, and spiritual energy was spent on survival. However, I think the gift of this study was a systematic, rational review of some of the basic doctrines of my faith. When I was questioning everything I thought I knew about God, I worked through a structured study of the New Testament’s longest book on Christian theology. It addressed my questions on a macro-level (Why do we deserve death? What is God’s plan for us?) so that I could begin to process through them on a micro-level (Why did this happen to my child? What is God’s plan for him? For me?).

In 2018-2019, I completed my first Old Testament study with BSF. This study was known at the time as People of the Promised Land I, and it covered the period from when Joshua led the people through the Jordan River to the Promised Land through the reign of King Solomon. This coincided with my experience at the inCompete Retreat, which I have referred to often on this blog because it was a definite turning point for me. I remember working on my BSF lesson while at the retreat, and it was about Joshua placing his foot on the neck of his enemies foreshadowing Jesus’ ultimate victory over death. God had promised the Israelites victory and possession of the Promised Land; however, they still had to fight the battle. That was analogous to my stage of healing — God had promised to bind up my wounds, but I had to participate in the healing process. God had promised to be with me in the battle to overcome the effects of trauma in my body, mind, and spirit, but I needed to start “doing the work.”

Part of that work was re-engaging with people and pushing back out of my comfort zone, which had shrunk substantially after Ethan died. So when I was asked to take on a leadership role in the next year’s study, I agreed with a good deal of hesitation. By this time, I was completely sold on the format and method of BSF and was really looking forward to facilitating a group discussion and participating in the weekly leaders’ meetings. I knew I wanted our group to be a safe place to share, but I didn’t know how much personally I should share about Ethan in a group of young mothers. That actually has been a concern each year I have served as a leader, but the first year was the most intimidating. This post details the circumstances surrounding the beginning of the year, and I found God to be faithful in equipping me to minister from within my “prison” throughout the entire year. I discovered that I really enjoyed being a GL and that, with God’s help, I actually did a pretty good job in that position.

The spring we studied Acts was the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. After evaluating all the risks and necessary precautions, our BSF class went virtual for the 2020-2021 study of Genesis. My group that year was surprisingly close, given that we never met each other in person until the last day of class when I hosted a lunch to celebrate the end of the year. I remember telling one girl, “Wow! I had no idea you were so tall!” It’s hard to gauge height while people are in a tiny square on your computer. This was one of two years when I really felt like my experiences with grief and loss were directly helpful to some of my group members. Genesis was an interesting study, and I really learned a lot from my group members and their perspectives. As an example of my many “light bulb moments” was the realization that I had always read Genesis 3:13 with a punitive tone in God’s voice, like I sound when I discover permanent marker on my freshly painted living room walls. But during the discussion, one member said, “What is this you have done?” with hurt, not anger, in her voice. Since then, I have tried to be aware of the tone of voice I hear when I read Scripture, trying out different emotions as I read tricky passages to see what fits into the immediate context and what we know about God’s character. Throughout the year, we persevered through technical difficulties and toddler photobombers, and I saw God answer some big prayers and use his people to encourage each other in profound ways.

For our Matthew study in 2021-2022, we were back in person and back in the New Testament. If studying John grew my love for Jesus, studying Matthew grew my respect for him. Jesus was truly an amazing teacher; he always had the right words, illustrations, and posture in dealings with a wide range of people. Several lessons helped me wrestle with some hurtful events at my church — allowing me to see the sin in my heart that has played a role and reminders that deepest needs are met by Jesus even when his followers get it wrong.

Another overarching theme was the upside-down kingdom of God. My group experienced this reality in a tangible and unforgettable way. Just before our first class, the substitute teaching leader let me know that one of my group members had received the results of prenatal testing that morning and was carrying a baby with Down syndrome. Walking through this study while she was absorbing this reality and preparing for her baby’s arrival was a high privilege. And even as this friend was wrestling through some difficult feelings, she encouraged me that my story, Ethan’s story, mattered. My group even brought me a hydrangea to class on March 1st, which fell on a Tuesday. It is planted in our Ethan garden at home.

Ten days later, this precious baby entered the world at 12:01 a.m. on March 10th. That was too much of a coincidence to not mean something, but it was a lot to process, especially when she ended up with the same heart defect as well. Her birthday is a sign to me that God will one day fully redeem that day, and her story of healing reminds me that God will fully heal all his children in due time. Through BSF and our study of Matthew, Baby E. and Ethan’s lives will be intertwined with each other in God’s beautiful story of redemption until His Kingdom comes in full.

I will go into details about this year in a second post, as this entry is already too long and I need space to work through some complex thoughts related to the Kingdom Divided. Spoiler alert: I am going to revisit a recurring theme on this blog and dive into a paradox. For now, I want to conclude this post by stepping back to take a view over the whole landscape of the past seven years.

I am amazed by all that I have learned and experienced through BSF since 2016. Not to mention what a blessing it has been to my children, which would be a whole other post. It hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes a comment during a discussion was hurtful, sometimes people’s personalities clashed, and sometimes the topic for the week seemed like really bad timing. I have been forced to look straight into the face of my grief more times than I can count, whether at home completing my lesson, in the group discussion, or in lecture. But just like setting a broken bone, pain is part of the healing, too.

God has used it all in his relentless pursuit of my heart — both my idolatrous, selfish, sinful heart and my wounded, doubting, grieving heart. Just like the people of Israel, I am tempted to forget God’s past faithfulness, both because of my sin and my loss. But Love did not let me go. He prepared for me to encounter His Word and His people through my local BSF Day Women’s Class during this portion of my journey in the Shadowlands, and I will forever be grateful.

O Love that Wilt Not Let Me Go

O Love that will not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee.

I give thee back the life I owe,

that in thine ocean depths its flow

may richer, fuller be.

O Light that follows all my way,

I yield my flick’ring torch to thee.

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

that in thy sunshine’s blaze its day

may brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee.

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

and feel the promise is not vain,

that morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee.

I lay in dust, life’s glory dead,

and from the ground there blossoms red,

life that shall endless be.

George Matheson
Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

When Knowing is not the Answer

Ethan’s Dad:

HERE’S A STORY ABOUT UNCERTAINTY. In the early 20th Century, technology kept improving and the instruments kept improving and the instruments used for scientific measurements kept growing more precise. So did the clocks, to the extent that train schedules could finally be synchronized across Europe. That different trains in different places could leave their stations at the same time — well, that was very important to the patent office in Bern, Switzerland. But it was also very curious to a clerk who worked there.

‘Albert Einstein said, we used to think we knew what ‘at the same time’ meant,’ says Hans Halvorson, a professor of philosophy at Princeton. ‘It meant “simultaneous.” And the whole relativity revolution was Einstein saying, “Wait, when we have really precise measurements, what we thought of as being the same time breaks down.” We don’t really know what it means to say something happened in New Jersey at the same time as something happened in Sydney, Australia.’

It turns out to be the driving force of the breakthroughs that define modern physics. ‘What happened,’ Halvorson says, ‘was that experimental techniques kept getting better and better so they could pin down things more and more. But what they were finding was that as one thing was pinned down more and more precisely, it was making other questions harder and harder to answer.’

This seeming paradox — more knowledge leading to less certainty — pertains more to quantum physics than it does to relativity. But according to Halvorson, the underlying philosophical questions have never been settled, ‘because there are people who very much hope that this is a temporary thing and we’ll eventually figure out how to beat it and others who think it’s telling us something about how we’re embedded in our reality. We have to figure out what it is about human beings that makes us think we can without limit make our knowledge more precise. Because that turns out not to be true.’

Tom Junod: How the Dez Bryant no-catch call changed the NFL Forever

Why am I starting a post by quoting from a sports article that was all about the vagaries of instant replay in the NFL? Because it unexpectedly contained an exposition about the human thirst for knowledge and, conversely, how that thirst seems cursed because it is never satisfied. To be sure, the philosophy professor quoted in the article does not say humanity is cursed; he describes it in terms of a scientific conundrum because “educated” people are not supposed to invoke primordial ideas like a “curse.” After all, we have evolved beyond such thinking, haven’t we? That was what the scientific revolution was all about as far as the post-modern world is concerned: ridding the world of religious superstitions.

Unless, of course, the “curse” is describing something inherent in the human condition. In the very first book of the Bible, Genesis, there is a story about how the first humans, Adam and Eve — who were special creations made by God in his image and likeness — destroyed their relationship with their Maker. (See Genesis 3). It is a story that, even in our ever-increasing religiously pluralistic society, nearly everyone knows. God told Adam and Eve that they could eat from any tree in the Garden of Eden except the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. With some encouragement from Satan, who was disguised in the form of snake, Adam and Eve disobeyed God’s command and ate fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Satan had told Eve that when she ate the fruit “your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5, NIV). That was partially true: Adam and Eve did obtain knowledge they were previously unaware of, but they did not become “like God” because they did not become all-knowing — far from it. Of course, it was not the fruit that imparted knowledge; it was the act of disobedience, which deprived them of innocence and opened the door to forsaking the good that God intended for them.

It turned out that knowledge of evil was not a good thing. The knowledge Adam and Eve gained caused them to feel guilty, to cast blame rather than assume responsibility, to lie and thus become less trusting of each other, and to feel scared of God rather than feel enveloped by His love for them. Just as menacing, they passed this knowledge on to their offspring, and that knowledge led to anger and jealousy by one brother toward the other, who then conceived the idea of murder as a solution to the problem. (See Genesis 4). People have lived with the terrible consequences of this knowledge ever since.

Thus, one of the lessons of that story from the beginning of human history is that more knowledge is not necessarily the panacea we like to believe that it is. We like to believe that inevitably the more we know, the better off we are; that the answers to our problems are just around the next bend, if only we can see a little further ahead in order to gain more information; that if we seek knowledge, it will reward us with ever-increasing benefits. But deep within ourselves, or at least the more years we spend on this earth, we start to doubt this belief about knowledge.

I write all of that because for a while now I have been pondering how certain situations in my life have been characterized by a lack of knowledge. As Ethan’s Mom wrote in a recent post, I had an accident a little over six months ago that was caused by falling off a ladder. I sustained a severe concussion, I had to go the emergency room (which brings painful memories in itself — especially on this day), and apparently I had multiple seizures while I was unconscious, which was a completely new phenomenon for me. The concussion initially caused some unpleasant after-effects such as sensitivity to noise, extreme tiredness, and some confusion. The fact of the seizures meant I was put on preventative medication and was not permitted to drive at all for six months. On top of all of that, a neurologist showed me an MRI scan that seemed to indicate that there are some potential problems in my brain.

So, throughout this entire period after the accident I have been wondering why it even happened. I do not remember the fall itself, but I know it is likely that the ladder became unstable and I simply lost my balance. I then had the misfortune of hitting the back of my head on something very hard. But that is just the physical explanation for the accident. What I really want to know is why did I fall, on that particular day just before my birthday; why did I have to sustain a severe concussion? Why did I have seizures that prevented me from being able to drive members of my family anywhere for six months? Why did there need to be all those physical scans performed on my body that raised the specter of several things being wrong with me, including with the one instrument I use the most: my brain?

It has been more than six months and I still do not know the answers to those questions. It has felt like a metaphorical parallel to the “dream” I had of me falling backwards off a ladder into nothing but darkness: no ground, nothing visible, just a pit of darkness. There is nothing. No explanation. No clarity. No ah ha moment revealing a purpose for this drastic event that came out of nowhere.

Of course, that scenario has happened to me before, in the worst way imaginable, six years ago today. That event of March 10th, 2017, is one I could never forget. And when it happened, all I felt was agony, darkness, and confusion. It has been six years since Ethan slipped away, and there has been no genuine clarity, no ah ha moment, no revelation of why God allowed that to happen. Oh, our knowledge has increased. We know that Ethan’s heart condition was a factor in his death. We know he was weaker than the doctors thought. We know that something the night before was off with him even more than usual. But those are just bare physical facts. They are not real answers to why our precious boy would be robbed of his life and why we would be robbed of his presence for the rest of our earthly lives. I have no such answers despite immeasurable amounts of time spent pondering, praying, and wondering about it all.

It is not because of insufficient effort that I lack the knowledge. It is not because of a lack of reading or learning or listening that I do not have an answer beyond the fact that some tragedies occur because creation is torn and shattered by a scourge of evil. And because of that, I have been wondering if the notion that having that knowledge will make it better is simply not true. Maybe I do not have the answer because it is best I don’t.

So, maybe those philosophers who say that it is inherent in our existence that further knowledge breeds more uncertainty are right. Perhaps the fact that things become less clear the more we know does speak to the human condition. Every time we look further into space we find there is more there than we thought and less we understand about it than we theorized. The further we probe into the smallest particles of existence, the less predictable the behavior of matter seems to be and the less certain we are of how that unseen world operates. As Bono sings in the opening of U-2’s City of Blinding Lights “The more you see, the less you know, the less you find out as you go, I knew much more then, than I do now.” What if that uncertainty itself is purposeful?

To go back to Genesis 3, I believe it is possible that the reason God commanded Adam and Eve not to desire knowledge for its own sake (not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil) was because knowledge is a false god. It tempts you into believing that all you need is to discover the right answer and everything will be okay when the reality is that further probing often just produces futility because there is always another permutation out there. I am not saying that exploration and discovery and learning are bad or pointless. I am talking about treating knowledge as an end, rather than as a means to the right end — as if the answers to life’s fundamental questions lie in obtaining more knowledge, or that if we can just be precise enough, work hard enough, study enough, the answer will reveal itself. I think God was trying to tell us that is not true: In essence, He was saying: “Do not seek knowledge, seek Me. I am the answer you are looking for because you are dependent upon Me.” Adam and Eve were tempted to “be like God.” (Genesis 3:5). In contrast, Paul tells us that Jesus, even though He was God, “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” (Philippians 2:6-7, ESV). We do not need to be God; we need to be with God.

I ask why Ethan died because it is natural for me to pose the question. I know God does not condemn the inquiry. He expects it. But what He does not want me to do is to assume there is an answer that I should be able to find out or understand this side of Heaven. We look for answers because it is inherent in our nature to seek knowledge. We want to solve the problem. But what if we are not meant to know the answer, or even, what if there is no good answer beyond that evil exists and wreaks havoc upon this world? What if we are supposed to sit in that void of uncertainty where knowledge is forsaken because we are meant to be dependent upon the Lord?

That thought is why I despise the saying “don’t waste your suffering.” I certainly believe that God’s purpose in the grand scheme of our lives is to bring us closer to Him — to make us more like Jesus — and that suffering can move us in that direction. But not everything that happens to us occurs for that purpose. When a phrase like “don’t waste your suffering” is glibly thrown around — especially to those who are in the midst of tragedy — it not so subtly implies that there is some “higher purpose” for every kind of suffering a person endures, that we should be striving to ascertain that purpose, and that, if we do not discover that purpose, perhaps we are just not listening to God closely enough. However, God tells us:

‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord.
‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.’

(Isaiah 55:8-9, ESV). Given that disparity, we do not — and dare I say cannot — know all of the answers for why some things happen as they do, and we put ourselves in God’s place, as Adam and Eve sought to do, when we persistently assume and seek such answers.

In fact, Ethan’s Mom pointed out to me earlier this week that the whole concept of “don’t waste your suffering” is a very American way of viewing this issue. It assumes that pain and suffering are some sort of self-help program that we are supposed to be availing ourselves of in order to improve our character. We Americans particularly view ourselves as problem-solvers. Every question has an answer if we just put our minds to it. There is nothing we cannot accomplish if we just keep trying. But that attitude is the exact opposite of what our spiritual lives are supposed to reflect. We are supposed to comes to grips with our constant need for dependence on God. We do not save ourselves: Jesus does. Isn’t that void of knowledge the place where faith resides?

And even if such mysteries bring us to that place of dependence because of unimaginable loss, it does not mean that God intended for that loss to happen. Just because we learn something does not mean that is why it occurs because correlation does not necessarily equal causation. We can thank God for blessings that come out of tragedies while still lamenting the awfulness of the events themselves. Being thankful in our troubles does not mean we must forget about them. After all, the Psalms of lament are just as much a part of Scripture as the Psalms of praise.

We always want this neat little bow on everything, to somehow make it “happily ever after” in the here and now even though God clearly says in both Isaiah (25:8-9) and Revelation (21:1-5) that such happiness will not come until the end of this age. It is the materialist, not the Christian, who desperately strives for and clings to happiness now because for him there is nothing else.

So, to me the proper spiritual response to real, heart-rending pain is not “don’t waste your suffering”; it is “don’t despair in your suffering” because God grieves about it with you and His Son experienced it, and precisely because of that, one day it will be made right. Hold fast in dependence upon Him until then. Do not buy the lie that all is lost because you do not see the good in your suffering. Because sometimes there is no good in an evil thing, which is why we need the One who not only redeems situations while we are here, but who also will restore situations when we are all at last with Him for eternity.

Later in that same U-2 song I referenced earlier, Bono sings: “And I miss you when you’re not around, I’m getting ready to leave the ground.” Every day, and especially on this day, I miss you not being around, Ethan. And through Jesus’ sanctifying work, I am “getting ready to leave the ground” of this physical world where, thankfully, I will see Ethan again. “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20).

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

The Struggle

Ethan’s Dad: It has been four years, but I continue to wrestle with it as I did right after it happened. The main differences are that the struggle is not there all the time and the questions are quieter and more subtle. I function fairly normally most of the time now. The fight sits in a pit deep within and emerges at various times — sometimes predictably, like in the week of all weeks in March, and sometimes unexpectedly, like when Ethan’s twin brother randomly does or says something that makes me wonder what Ethan would have said or done right next to him. It no longer pervasively cripples, but it does loom.

One recent example is when I (again) heard death generically described as a natural part of life. Mentally I understand why people say this: because people die every day, and everyone will experience loss in their lives. Certainly, with the pandemic that reality has hit home in a lot of places this past year. In a way, I suppose the statement is meant to be a comfort, so that you know everyone has a sense of what you have experienced. But there is a part of me that cannot help but take it as a gross trivialization of a genuine wrong. The fact is that not every parent loses a child, and not every parent only has two months with a child. My point is not to rank our pain above someone else’s, but to make people stop and think about what they are saying. All death is loss. All death is tragic. All death is wrong in the sense that it was not God’s original intent for His special creation called humanity. We know this and we feel it because the part of us that is not physical — our spirits — tell us so. The fact that Ethan was eventually going to die does not make his premature death any less tragic. We hold “celebrations of life” for people who live long and make lasting impressions on those around them. Ethan never had that chance. We can be thankful we got the opportunity to hold him — absolutely that was infinitely better than if he had not survived the first ambulance ride — but there is nothing wrong with mourning the fact that we did not get to see him (and Ethan did not get to experience) crawling, or walking, or talking, or laughing, or jumping on the trampoline, or reading a book, or giving us a hug, or . . . . the list is as long as a regular life. Death in this present world is a natural part of life, but a child’s death is not in the natural order of things. And, in any event, just because something is “natural” does not make it right. That is the very reason Christ calls us to be new creations and why He is coming back to bring a new Heaven and a new earth where there will be no more death, or mourning, or crying, or pain. The old will pass away and He will make all things new. (Revelation 21:4-5). Until that day, I will struggle with this loss.

Some might say that struggle is wrong. That I am failing to find peace in Christ. That I am arrogantly challenging God and His ways, which are perfect and irreproachable. But I don’t think God really sees it that way. Recently in BSF we studied the story where Jacob wrestles a “Man” from night until daybreak. The Bible records it this way:

“Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he could not defeat him, he struck Jacob’s hip socket as they wrestled and dislocated his hip. Then he said to Jacob, ‘Let me go, for it is daybreak.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’ ‘What is your name?’ the man asked.

“‘Jacob,’ he replied. ‘Your name will no longer be Jacob,’ he said. ‘It will be Israel because you have struggled with God and with men and have prevailed.’ Then Jacob asked him, ‘Please tell me your name.’ But he answered, ‘Why do you ask my name?’ And he blessed him there. Jacob then named the place Peniel, ‘For I have seen God face to face,” he said, ‘yet my life has been spared.’ The sun shone on him as he passed by Penuel — limping because of his hip.” (Genesis 32:24-31, CSB).

I have to confess that I have always found this story to be a strange one. It raises a lot of questions. Chief among them is: Who is this “man” that Jacob wrestled? There are several clues suggesting that the “man” is God in human form; indeed, it very well might be Jesus before the Incarnation. First, the “man” is able to dislocate Jacob’s hip just by touch. Second, Jacob seeks a blessing from the “man.” There would be no reason for Jacob to do that unless he believed the “man” was of divine origin. Third, the “man” renames Jacob. In ancient times, naming something indicated dominion over it.

You might wonder: “If it is God, who is all-knowing, how come He had to ask Jacob his name? But God does this all the time, that is, ask a question He already knows the answer to. He did the same in the Garden of Eden when He asked Adam and Eve where they were after they ate the fruit, and when He asked them what they had done. God did the same with Cain when He asked Cain where his brother Abel was after Cain had killed him. God does not ask such questions to gain information, but rather to test the respondent’s heart. Here, God wanted to see if Jacob would respond differently than he had when Isaac had asked who he was when Jacob and his mother were conspiring to trick Isaac into giving Jacob the blessing Isaac meant for Jacob’s brother, Esau. There Jacob had lied about who he was; but to the “man” he was honest about being Jacob, which means “the deceiver.” In essence, he was confessing who he had been to God.

A fourth clue as to the identity of the “man” is that when Jacob asks for His name, the “man” responds with incredulity at the question. This reaction is either because the “man” believed Jacob should have already known who He was, or because no name is adequate to describe God. It is reminiscent of when Moses asked God at the burning bush who he should tell the Egyptians sent him to them. God responds: “I am who I am.” (Exodus 3:14). That response may seem tautological, but that is the point. There is nothing that describes God except God because He is incomparable.

Fifth, the “man” does bless Jacob. God is the only one who truly can shower people with blessings because everything good comes from Him. (James 1:17). The sixth clue would seem to be a giveaway: the “man’s” translation of Jacob’s new name, Israel, is that Jacob “struggled with God and with men and has prevailed.” This would seem to indicate that the “man” is simultaneously God and man. Finally, after the “man” leaves, Jacob names the place where this event occurred and says that he has “seen the face of God” and yet his life had been spared. This is a big statement because even Moses only saw God’s “backside” because God said no one could see Him in his glory and live. Of course, seeing this human representation of God was different than seeing God the Father, but it was still clearly awe-inspiring for Jacob.

Okay, so if the “man” was God, why in the world was Jacob wrestling Him? After all, that seems like a losing proposition — wrestling the most powerful being in existence. Yet, then we see another curveball because the text says “the man saw he could not defeat [Jacob],” and then that Jacob “prevailed.” How is it remotely possible that Jacob could prevail over God? And again, why are they wrestling at all, alone in the middle of nowhere?

This is where the reasons this story is in the Bible start to be revealed. The answer to the first question is, of course, that God let Jacob win, though not without providing him with a reminder of his own weakness (the hip which produced a limp). Why would God let Jacob win? Because it is only through God’s seeming defeat that the true blessing could come. For you see (this observation comes courtesy of St. Augustine), we have here a picture of the Cross: the place where man and evil seemingly prevailed over Jesus, bringing about His death, but only because He (and God the Father) willingly submitted to it. He did this because it was only through the death of the perfect, spotless, Lamb of God that sin’s penalty could be paid, and that we could be given the blessing of new (and eternal) life. The “man” lets Jacob win, and only after that does He give Jacob his new name, Israel, and give him the blessing. And what was that blessing? Seeing God and (in a sense) being granted new life. In the end, this is also our blessing when we trust in Jesus.

But what was essential for all of that was the struggle, the wrestling that lasts the night and then gives way with the dawn of morning. Jacob starts alone in the night, no doubt wondering whether God is really with him, whether God really loves him and will keep His promises to Him. This is the true beginning of the struggle. Then the “man” appears and the fight ensues. As the fight goes on, no doubt Jacob’s inner struggle intensified: needing to will himself to go on as he grew weaker, reproving himself for mistakes that may give the “man” an upper hand, coming to realize that he was not at all worthy to be engaging in a match with this “man” in the first place. Then comes Jacob’s “victory,” which solely comes by grace from the “man,” which is demonstrated by the injury inflicted solely by the “man’s” touch. The blessing follows only after Jacob realizes who the “man” really is: he sees God and lives. But Jacob does not (and perhaps could not) experience this revelation without the struggle and hurt, the effects of which he would bear for the rest of his earthly days.

Jacob had to come to a place where he understood that he could no longer be who he was: the deceiver relying on his own wits to thrive. Instead, he needed to rely on the Truth — God — in order to receive the blessing that would last for eternity. The only reason Jacob “wins” this struggle is because the Lord is involved in it. If Jacob had only been wrestling with himself, he would have lost from despair — as anyone who has experienced bouts of depression can attest. Thus, struggles of belief do not lead anywhere if they do not actively involve God. God does not despise being tested or challenged if the one posing the challenge is genuine and honest. When Satan tempted Jesus by telling Him to throw Himself off the Temple because God’s angels will rescue Him, and Jesus says, “It is written: Do not put the Lord your God to the test,” Jesus refers to frivolous testing, challenges that mock God, as Satan proposed, rather than genuine questioning that comes from a seeking heart.

So, when I struggle with Ethan’s death, with God allowing such an evil to transpire, I do not think God despises it, blames me for it, or turns His back on me because of it. I think He expects it, hopes for it, and engages with it. The last thing He would want me to do is ignore it or assume He could have done nothing about it (and in doing so deny that God exists). The question is whether I am getting somewhere in the struggle. If it is a perpetual stalemate, then nothing comes of it, the dark of night always remains with no ray of sunshine peeking through the gloom. But if I am “winning,” even ever so slowly, by His grace, then I am coming closer to seeing God for who He truly is. That “sight” might not be the benevolent uncle or Santa Claus that people often like to imagine God being, but something more complex, scary, and mysterious. But if it is closer to Him, then the expectation of who He is needs to be shattered to make the vision clearer.

This is why our understanding of God and the incarnation of Jesus changes (or should change) over time. As children, we are taught about the God who created, who promised with a rainbow, who parted the sea, and who protected in a Lion’s den. These stories reflect the timeless character of God, but as we grow we ponder the presence of the Tree of Knowledge, the children who died in the flood, the Christians in the Roman coliseums who were torn apart by lions. Likewise, early in our walk, we are taught about Jesus the teacher, the healer, the good shepherd who cares for His sheep. These ideas are not wrong: they absolutely need to be a foundation for what follows, and we must be reminded of them throughout our lives. But they are not the whole story. For there is also Jesus the turner of tables in the Temple, Jesus the stern rebuker of the Pharisees, Jesus the questioner of Peter and confronter of Saul, Jesus the washer of feet, Jesus the anguished in the Garden, Jesus the transfigured on the mountain, and more.

In its essence, “the struggle” means coming to a better understanding of Christ’s death and resurrection: “seeing God” for who He really is more clearly on this side of Heaven. To be honest, that is what this wondering about Ethan’s loss produces in me. Resolution does not fully come because on this side I cannot see it all — but I yearn to, and do, see more. I would be lying if I said that the view is entirely easy on the eyes of my heart, but if my heart is closer to His, then that is something. It does not replace Ethan, but He knows that, because He knows our sorrow:

“You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.”(Psalm 56:8, NLT).

“He was despised and rejected—
a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief.
We turned our backs on him and looked the other way.
He was despised, and we did not care.” (Isaiah 53:3, NLT).

And one day there will be a restoration:

“It will happen in a moment, in the blink of an eye, when the last trumpet is blown. For when the trumpet sounds, those who have died will be raised to live forever. And we who are living will also be transformed.

“For our dying bodies must be transformed into bodies that will never die; our mortal bodies must be transformed into immortal bodies. Then, when our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.
“‘O death, where is your victory?
“‘O death, where is your sting?’” (1 Corinthians 15:52-55, NLT)

On that day, the struggle will cease because I will see Jesus clearly, I will see Ethan again, and there will be rest for my soul.

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A Story for Our Time

Ethan’s Dad: As my last post noted, we recently celebrated the twins’ fourth birthday. In our Bible Study Fellowship classes, the lesson for Ethan’s Mom and I that week of Ethan’s birthday was Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac (Genesis 22:1-14). People who believe or live as though there is no spiritual aspect to life would ascribe that kind of occurrence to a mere coincidence, but if you believe that God exists, that He loves you, and that He is active in your life, then it is not so easy to dismiss this scheduling alignment.

So why would God have us study that particular story on that particular week? From a certain point of view, it seems cruel to have to ponder a story about God asking Abraham to sacrifice his son on the same week we remember the coming into the world of the the son we lost. And I don’t want what I am going to relate here to obscure the reality that engaging with the lesson was painful. To be sure, there are key differences between Abraham’s experience and ours: God did not ask us to give up Ethan, like He commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, and our son was actually taken, without warning or explanation, while Abraham ultimately received the grace of not having to go through with the horrible deed and thus retained his son. Perhaps most importantly, the Genesis text expressly states that God was testing Abraham (22:1). As I have related in this blog before, I steadfastly believe that Ethan’s death was not a “test” from God: death is evil; it is not part of God’s original plan for us, and ascribing a tragedy like that to some sort of spiritual maturation process co-signs Ethan to being nothing more than a pawn in other people’s lives, which is absolutely wrong.

Even though we can mentally recognize those differences, the story still evokes strong emotions because of our experience. We understand what is being asked of Abraham in a tangible way few others can. Likewise, we have a deeper sense of what it actually meant for God to sacrifice, and be separated from, His Son Jesus on the Cross. (Though no human can adequately grasp the level of that sacrifice because Jesus physically endured an almost unimaginably grotesque death, He spiritually bore the entire sin of the world for all-time, and He and the Father had never before experienced the separation this sacrifice required). But if you asked us, we would say in a heartbeat that this deeper sense of understanding the magnitude of the loss at issue is not worth it. Indeed, there have been numerous times in the wake of that most horrendous of days that we have questioned whether this whole way of setting things up makes sense or was worth it. Why would God create a world where He knew so much pain was going to be inflicted on people He says He loves?

But then you have to remember Genesis 3:15 (“And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel.”) which tells us that God also set up this world in such a way that His Son (and therefore also Himself) was going to hang on a tree by nails in order to save us. So we can’t say that God is ducking any of the pain or that this is some kind of cruel joke or game He is playing because no rational person would set up such a wrenching game. In other words, God could identify with Abraham, and He can identify with us, just as we can with them.

And that truth got me thinking that perhaps the reason God had us do this particular lesson on this particular week was to identify with Abraham all the way through the story — not just in the sense of loss — but in order to affirm to us that Ethan was a precious gift to us, just as Isaac was to Abraham. For just as Isaac’s conception and birth were miracles, it also was a miracle that Ethan was born safely in that ambulance four years ago. As his only child, Abraham undoubtedly had spent a tremendous amount of time with Isaac before God gave this test to Abraham. We spent two priceless, brief months with Ethan, caring for him more intensely than any other baby we have had, up until the very moment he left us. But there is more to the parallel. Abraham was able to obey God’s command because Isaac’s life was a testimony to the facts that God always keeps His promises and that God does impossible things. According to Hebrews 11:19, Abraham in fact was clinging to the belief that Isaac would be raised from the dead, even though he had no concrete experience of such an event. But Abraham did know that God had demonstrated the power to create life from Sarah’s “dead” womb, and so Abraham firmly believed (because otherwise how could he ever have taken even the first step toward that mountain?) that even Isaac’s death could not hinder God from keeping His promises about Isaac and his offspring.

It is true that God endured the sacrifice of His Son while knowing that that Jesus was going to be raised from the dead, while Abraham had to rely on faith in carrying out God’s command to sacrifice Isaac. But that is precisely the point: we must come to understand that faith in God is as certain as actually knowing how it all ends. God commended and blessed Abraham, He preserved Isaac in the flesh, and He saved Abraham for eternity precisely because of Abraham’s indomitable faith in what was true: that God is a promise-keeper who does the impossible, including resurrection. Thus, to God knowing the answer is not as important as having faith in Him that there will be an answer.

Yes, this story of Abraham and Isaac is about how obedience to God may involve great sacrifice — though not more than God already has sacrificed for our salvation. But it is just as much about sustaining faith in God’s power of resurrection. So perhaps God was reassuring us on that particular week that His gift of Ethan to us was not in vain; we, like Abraham, can believe with confidence that we will see Ethan again because God ensured exactly that with none other than His own Son, who lives and is with Ethan at this very moment. Praise the Lord for His comforting truth in the midst of great sorrow!

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When Fortune Cookie Theology Isn’t Good Enough

Ethan’s Dad: So since we last made an entry here, everyone’s lives have been affected in some way or other by the COVID-19 virus, more commonly referred to as the coronavirus. Some parts of our lives have been put on hold, and for some their worlds have been completely turned upside down. If you are in that last category, please know that we are praying for you.

There is so much that has been, and could be, said about the virus and the chaos it has created. But one thing I certainly think the situation has starkly demonstrated is that there is a lot about our lives we do not control. You cannot really control whether you will get the virus or not (you can enhance or diminish probabilities, but that isn’t the same as control). You cannot control what effect the virus will have on you if you do contract it: will you be asymptotic, severely afflicted, or somewhere in between? You cannot control how the stock market will react to the measures that have been taken to mitigate the effects of the virus. And so on it goes.

A natural reaction people often have to the realization that they do not control as much as they believed they did is to feel fear. It is the same for things we cannot fully understand: a natural fear accompanies a lack of knowledge or a lack of control. For Christians, this fear can be managed, mollified, or even defeated by the thought that God is in control and that He understands all that is going on.

We have already been through an event of horrifying chaos in which we were completely helpless, watching our son’s life expire without warning, no matter how much we screamed for it not to be so.  And in the immediate aftermath of that horror, we had our share of “armchair theologians” tell us that it was all okay because “God is in control” and “everything is part of His plan.”  In attempting to absorb those responses, I came to understand that in such a time, the proclamation that “God is in control” turns into a mantra, a crutch that is used to quickly move past difficult questions rather than to honor God’s truth.

When “God is in control” acts as an incantation in the face of all we don’t understand, as the full-stop answer when we have no answers, then it loses its value as a foundation for faith.  When someone is in the midst of overwhelming grief, there is no capacity to delve into what “control” really entails, and so, rather than the statement serving as a faith conversation starter, the “good Christian” — the hurt Christian — will immediately nod his or her head and say no more.

This is one of the reasons you should not blithely say “God is in control” (or a variation of it) to a fellow Christian who has just suffered a tragic loss. You may think it sounds comforting, but to someone who has just lost someone irreplaceable, it is belligerent and cold. The sheer finality of the statement does not allow the sufferer any space to grieve, to fume, to question. It says: “Don’t be sad. Don’t worry. Don’t wonder. Just accept that this is how God planned it.”

I can tell you from personal experience that the person who is suffering the loss will not appreciate what you are saying; he or she will resent it, loathe it, scream (at least inwardly) about it, and then feel guilty for those perfectly acceptable feelings. (It was only later that I learned to extend some grace toward those who would share this “bit of wisdom” with me, a grace born from the realization that it can be extremely difficult to find a “right way” to comfort someone suffering a profound loss). In the end, you are not ministering to that person with this trite expression; you are really just trying to make yourself feel better about what has happened because you don’t have a good explanation for it. But hey, at least you were able to say something Biblical about it, and that’s a lot better than saying nothing, right?

Actually, this might surprise you, but one of the best things you can do is to say very little, and instead just be there to listen — even if the person suffering isn’t saying anything. Mind you, I am not saying that you should just pretend the terrible thing didn’t happen for fear of upsetting the person more. Acknowledgment of a person’s loss is crucial. There has never been a moment in which my wife and l have wished that people would just act like Ethan did not die, because failing to acknowledge that is like saying he never existed, he never mattered. Just because you cannot specifically identify with a person’s loss because you haven’t suffered the same thing does not mean you cannot acknowledge it. By mentioning the one who was lost, you are not going to cause the sufferer to feel a deeper despair than he or she is already experiencing. You will be honoring the rightness of the grief because it shows you know the loss was real.

But beyond the acknowledgment, listen and give the one who is grieving room to express true feelings of anger, bewilderment, and even some despair. Allowing that honesty without sermonizing can be its own witness to that person. If you want to do something with the Bible, then go to the Psalms with them. Read Psalm 13 or 77 or 88 with them so that they can know it is okay to feel as they do. For why else would such expressions of despair and questioning be in God’s Word? Loving in this kind of a situation is not about spouting fortune-cookie theology to solve a problem, but about listening to the questions, the expressions of anger, and the sighs of anguish and despair.  It is about being present while giving space for real grief.

That is about all this post can handle.  Since I have fired a shot across the bow about what God’s control might really mean in relation to evils like a child’s death or an insidious virus, I will follow up with another, much lengthier entry. But for the moment, remember that when it comes to the throes of grief, listening is far more important that dispensing answers.

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Catch You on the Flip Side

In my last blog post, I shared some about the beginning of my experience as a BSF discussion group leader. We are now almost 3 months into our class, and I have 14 ladies in my group, 6 of whom are currently pregnant. One is an unexpected 4th pregnancy, just like my twins, and that has brought up a lot of emotions. Leadership has been challenging in ways I expected and in ways I didn’t. It has been a blessing in ways I expected and in ways I didn’t as well.

As with my other 3 years of BSF, God seems to be zeroing in on the lessons I need in this stage of my journey through the shadowlands; however, that doesn’t mean that those lessons are easy to receive.

It’s been a tough few weeks here in my head and heart heading into the holiday season. In BSF, we have been talking a lot about suffering as we went from discussing Peter’s miraculous jail break in Acts 12 to his writings in 1 Peter. Suffering is a tricky topic for me. On the one hand it is really hard to fight the tendency to judge others’ stories of suffering against mine. On the other hand, I don’t want to really face the depths of my own suffering; the grief is still sometimes so raw.

The week we talked about the jailbreak was hard because it prompted a discussion about why James was executed by King Herod while Peter was miraculously delivered from danger the night before his show trial. Well, those sorts of questions are really tough for anyone to face head on, I think. When you can identify with James instead of Peter, it gets even harder. Both were “top 3” disciples; both were being prayed for by the church. Why the huge disparity in their stories? And why was James a little blip in the chapter that goes into such details about Peter’s rescue? He almost seems like an afterthought.

There is a family we know whose little girl was almost born while her mom was one of many, many people snowed in at work during a bad storm almost six years ago. But she wasn’t; Ethan and his brother were the ones born in an ambulance on the frozen highway. This little girl was diagnosed with a heart defect that was similar to Ethan’s. In fact, the day we found out about his VSD, her mom was one of the first non-family members I called, looking for advice and encouragement, knowing that she had a successful open heart surgery the summer before. After Ethan died, it was excruciating to see this preschooler living a normal life, starting kindergarten, even getting discharged from cardiology follow up visits. My son didn’t live long enough to have surgery to fix his heart. This is insane to admit, but I would find myself being jealous that Ethan didn’t “get to” have open heart surgery, like it was a prize that he didn’t win. Even though the heart defect was not the primary cause of death, it is still hard to think about all the prayers that were answered for her but not Ethan. It has gotten easier over the past two years, but I still have moments of secret bitterness towards this innocent little girl. That’s just one example. Every time I hear or read “God is so good!” in response to someone’s physical healing, I just cringe. Why wasn’t he good to my baby, too?

The next week’s lesson was from 1 Peter, and it was still hard but more hopeful. The lecture that week had several points that really resonated with me, but I want to focus on the section concerning “New life in Jesus shifts a believer’s focus to HOPE.”

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His great mercy has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that is incorruptible and undefiled and unfading, reserved in heaven for us who through faith are guarded by the power of God for salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time.” (1 Peter 1:3–5)

Our BSF teaching leader said that in suffering, God can “develop and refine our faith, loosening our grip on this world and leading us to trust the unseen reality of God Himself.” Nothing has loosened my grip on this world more than my child leaving it.

When Ethan’s dad leaves for his BSF group on Monday nights, the kids are usually still finishing up dinner. They have this game that has developed over time. Everyone tries to be the first to yell, “Catch you on the flip side!” when he comes in the kitchen to say goodbye. Whoever is beaten to the punch yells back, “No, no – catch YOU on the flip side!” They continue this back and forth for a few minutes, then Ethan’s dad will yell “Catchyouontheflipside” really fast and duck out of the kitchen.

This always makes me smile but the other day it occurred to me how profound this little game really is. They shift their focus from leaving to the hope of their reunion, and that makes all the difference in their parting.

My favorite quote from the lecture was “Eternal realities stabilize us and sustain us in daily realities.” I might consider getting it tattooed on my arm. If there is any other way to make it through the daily realities of traumatic bereavement, I surely don’t know of it.

I will never get a handprint turkey, never see Ethan in his preschool Thanksgiving program. Instead of thinking about stocking stuffers for Ethan, I went to Hobby Lobby to pick out new Christmas decorations for his graveside. I am planning ways to celebrate my twin boys on their 3rd birthday at Disneyworld, despite the fact that one will not be with us at “the happiest place on earth.”

Those are just a few examples from the past week. I could go on with a whole list of big and small daily realities that have knocked me off balance or made me want to quit altogether, but a pity party is not the goal of this post. The point is that the only thing that keeps me from utter despair when facing moments like these are, in fact, eternal realities stabilizing and sustaining me.

God is good, even though I cannot always feel or comprehend this truth.

I will not have a handprint turkey, but one day I will hold his hand.

I will not celebrate Christmas with him this year, but one day we will sing together in the presence of the Savior.

Jesus has made a way for my family to be together in a place that is so much better than Disneyworld I literally cannot conceive of it. And we get to stay, together, FOREVER.

Catch you on the flip side, my sweet Ethan. Catch you on the flip side.

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A Purpose in Prison

File:1627 Rembrandt Paulus im Gefängnis Staatsgalerie Stuttgart anagoria.JPG

Ethan’s Mom: This summer, I was contacted by the leader of our BSF chapter after being recommended for consideration as a group leader for this year’s study. For those unfamiliar with BSF (Bible Study Fellowship), it is a worldwide interdenominational Bible study that follows a specific format in all of its local chapters. Members interact with scripture in 4 ways each week — personally answering questions regarding a scripture passage, discussing their answers in a small group, listening to a lecture from the local teaching leader, and reading notes on the passage published by BSF. The study usually concentrates on a single book of the Bible over the course of a school year. I started BSF in 2016, and my first study was on the book of John. I could write a whole separate blog post on the ways I have seen and heard God work in my life through the blessing of BSF over the past 3 years. If you have read any other blog posts, you have heard us mention it before. I truly love BSF, and in many ways, attending small group and lecture has been easier for my broken heart than church services on Sunday morning.

But nowhere in the world is totally safe for a mother who has lost a baby. A sight, sound, or comment can bring me right back to the trauma resulting from Ethan’s death or the twins birth in a heartbeat. (Case in point — even typing the phrase, “in a heartbeat” carries such painful connotations for me, and I tried for a minute to come up with another phrase.) This is also true of BSF. Our class has many wonderful older or middle aged women in attendance and leadership, but a significant proportion of class members are young mothers who come and bring their infants and preschool children, who attend an excellent children’s program while the ladies are in group and lecture. After losing a baby, it can be very painful to see and/or interact with pregnant women or those with babies. Sometimes the things “normal people” express anxiety over or complain about seem so trivial in the shadow of the tragedy we’ve experienced. I see those moms that bring twins to class and think how I should be able to chat with them about the unique struggles of raising multiples, but I’m not technically doing that. I admit that it is difficult not to resent that those moms got to keep both of their babies.

Because of this, I prayed and discussed my concerns with Ethan’s dad before committing to lead a small discussion group. I felt like this was something that God wanted me to do, and truthfully, I was very excited about being involved with the leadership team and attending their weekly meetings in addition to our class meetings.

Then I received my class list. 13 young moms, 11 who had registered babies or preschoolers in the children’s program. When I called to introduce myself, I found out at least 3 will be bringing infants to group with them. In my mind, I started picturing these cute, stylish young moms with their perfectly delightful babies and toddlers in tow while I bring two boys and the shadow of someone missing.  These moms don’t need me and my messy theology.

The next day I attended the BSF Summit leader training simulcast with the other area classes. The day was filled with prayer and teaching, and at the very end, they showed a video. I admit, when it started, I wrote it off as cheesy BSF propaganda. The video was a dramatization of Audrey Wetherell Johnson founding BSF in the 1950s. Ms. Johnson had been a missionary to China, even suffering as a prisoner in a Chinese concentration camp during WWII. The video shows her in the camp, sick and cold, explaining to a fellow prisoner that all she wants is for people to love the book in her hands (the Bible) as much as she does. Then it flashed forward to a speech she gave to a ladies mission society after she had returned to California. She frets about what to wear, noting that she didn’t have to worry about being stylish when she was teaching pagans. After the lecture, five women ask her to lead them in a Bible study.  She returns home and complains to a friend that these women didn’t need her, they already knew the Bible. However, her attitude and demeanor betrayed her heart — she didn’t think those California housewives really needed her when so many others had “real” problems. “Why am I to give more to those who have so much?” she asks. The answer comes in a flashback to the concentration camp — a Chinese woman says, “I thought all you wanted was for people to love that book.” So she says yes, still unsure why the setting of her story changed from prison to the suburbs.

But God had a bigger plan. He grew the small Bible study into a worldwide movement that now has over 350,000 class members in more than 40 countries, including her beloved China. She couldn’t see the outcome in her lifetime, but God was faithful to honor her heart’s desire for the Chinese people as a result of her obedience.

My heart’s desire is for Ethan to be remembered, valued as a person and part of our family, and used in God’s kingdom, just as I pray that my living children will be. I don’t see how sharing him with people “who have so much” accomplishes that, but maybe I won’t know in my lifetime. Maybe God will use Ethan in ways that no one could even imagine today.

As He tends to do with important things, God brought this point home again soon after the summit. My mother-in-law gave me a wonderful book, “Perfectly Human: Nine Months with Cerian” by Sarah C. Williams, a professor at Oxford. The author’s daughter, Cerian, received a life limiting diagnosis of skeletal dyspepsia at a 20-week ultrasound. Near the end of the book, Sarah describes an eye-opening moment after Cerian’s loss at a lecture on “the gift of self” given by a Catholic theologian. She had intentionally avoided inviting a colleague who had earlier insisted that not terminating the pregnancy was irresponsible and questioned if her husband was pressuring her to give up her “right to choose.” Sarah runs into the woman on the way to the lecture, and she decides to come along. The lecture sparks an intimate moment between the two women, in which Sarah realizes the reason her colleague no longer believes in God. She goes on to say:

“I realize looking back that I was in danger at that time of getting locked in my own sorrow and grief and cutting myself off from other people. My colleague showed me something important, and her friendship drew me out of myself. Everyone hurts. We all hit the boundaries of our capacity at some time or another.”

Honestly, it can be tempting to cut myself off from other people. Many times it actually feels like I was cut off from people through no choice of my own. Grief is incredibly isolating.  People have avoided us and made ridiculous small talk to avoid mentioning anything about Ethan’s death. I have found this to be true of acquaintances as well as close friends. But I know that refusing to acknowledge the joy or even the pain in others’ lives is no way to live. It is hard not to play the my-pain-is-bigger-than-yours game, but who wins?

I was starting to feel pretty good about all of this when I found out through a seemingly random chain of events that one of my original group members had twins. I asked the leadership team for details, saying that sometimes twins are hard and I would do better if I was prepared. Turns out, this lady has twin boys almost the exact same age as mine. I had to grab onto the counter to steady myself when I received the message. This was my biggest fear – that someone in my group would have twins, 2 year old boy twins at that! The leaders offered immediately to change her to another group without anyone knowing why, so all that was resolved before I talked to her. After the initial rush of emotions that brought up, I realized that God brought that to our attention prior to class time because it was beyond what I can handle at this point. “A bruised reed he will not break” (Isaiah 42:3).  I am pretty sure that would have broken me.

This whole roller coaster was leading up to this week, when our actual first BSF group Tuesday. My mental pictures weren’t too far off, actually. I’m sure they all graduated high school after Y2K and have never heard the distinctive sound of a dial up modem. I felt so old!

It was awkward to introduce myself as the mother of 5. One other woman has a child in kindergarten this year, the rest have kids 2 and under. Two women had babies with them. Two are pregnant, and both are also the mothers of toddlers so the statement was made that they would just be lining everyone up for diaper changes. Before I knew it, I commented that it wasn’t terribly long ago we had three in diapers. Adding in my head, “but that only lasted two months and then we had to donate the stockpile of size 1 diapers.”

So I came home again feeling the weight of balancing being honest and real vs. sharing too much with these women. I’m sure they don’t want to hear about a baby dying of SIDS; it just hits too close to home. I thought I had softened my heart towards them and was ready to be a shepherd to this group, but I didn’t feel very shepherd-y later that afternoon.

I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the funk. People asked how it went — OK, not great but OK. It was a comfort to pull out the familiar format of notes and questions to start on at home, just like always. Then I read this in the very last paragraph of notes:

Ask God to grip your heart with the truth that He is fully in control and fully good. When trials come, remain in God’s Word and with God’s people. Ask Jesus to draw you close to Him and turn you outwards to others. How might your “prison” be part of Gods plan to make Jesus known and loved to the ends of the earth?

The prison reference is in regard to Paul, but it stopped me in my tracks. One of the comments I made several times in the early days of overwhelming grief was “I feel like I have been given a life sentence in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.” The rest of my life stretched out in front of me like an endless march of identical dark days. There was no time off for good behavior. There was no hope of freedom.

Knowing that, read the quote again. It starts with that tricky tension in reconciling God’s goodness with his sovereignty, a persistent theme in our blog posts. I knew the part about staying in God’s Word; that is what I thought the structure and in-depth study of BSF brought to me. I hadn’t considered that BSF is also a way to remain with God’s people. My experience may indeed feel like a prison, but prisons didn’t stop Paul from shepherding his fledgling churches. The only way I can proceed to turn outwards to others is with God’s provision, one day at a time. That is a recurrent theme as we walk in the Shadowlands, but provisional grace is a lot easier to write about than to trust. So I will leave us with this song/prayer for tonight:

“Give us faith to be strong
Father, we are so weak
Our bodies are fragile and weary
As we stagger and stumble to walk where you lead
Give us faith to be strong
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong

“Give us peace when we’re torn
Mend us up when we break
This flesh can be wounded and shaking
When there’s much too much trouble for one heart to take
Give us peace when we’re torn
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong

“Give us hearts to find hope
Father, we cannot see
How the sorrow we feel can bring freedom
And as hard as we try, Lord, it’s hard to believe
So, give us hearts to find hope
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong
Give us peace when we’re torn
Give us faith, faith to be strong”

Faith to Be Strong by Andrew Peterson