Tag Archives: hope

A Christmas Carol

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I saw Jesus in the gym the other day. An old man—somewhere around 90—walked in with his cane, laid it on a treadmill and walked a good ten minutes before sitting down to rest. He braced himself, hands on knees and pulled in several minutes of oxygen. Then, one by one, he challenged most of the weight machines, setting them to 70 pounds. Biceps, lats, etc., sitting down to catch his breath after each set. Lastly, he cradled a free weight and did sit-ups, then grabbed his cane and left. I believe my jaw was resting on the top of my treadmill by this time. This was two days before Christmas.
A man with Down syndrome pedaled away on one of the exercise bikes while watching a repetitive news station left on from a previous gym-attendee. He said not a word, but just slowly spun his feet around and around. While leaving, he glanced over at me on the noisy treadmill, grabbed his medical helmet and left.
The entire 45 minutes I was there, a man laid on the floor, yoga mat under back, and feet up on an exercise ball. “My back hurts”, he said—”one of those tough days,” while doing random sit-ups and stretches. Sometimes, he stayed still for several minutes at a time, then started again.
I was just trying to get in one more good workout before winter break kept me hair-pulling busy. It’s been a year. Good stuff, busy stuff, stressful stuff. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten so little done with my creative projects. Sometimes I daydream about finishing my book, or dipping my brushes into a tub of paint. I’m not all the way me without it. But my kids needed me more this year, and it’s been a good thing. Family comes before the art, Always, and raising kids is a full time ministry. I saw the fruit of my efforts, however small. But when you’re called to more than one ministry, the activities get a little muddy and as many of you know–exhausting. By the time holiday season rolls around old man fatigue knocks on the door.
But as I observed those champions in the gym that day, I could almost hear Jesus saying, “The amount of reps don’t matter, and the way people see you doesn’t matter, but the perseverance does. Faith does. Success is in the not giving up.”
Were those men my three Christmas ghosts? I don’t know. But I heard the message, and I’m pretty sure Jesus said the message wasn’t just for me.
Maybe this one’s for you today.
Blessings and strength for 2018.

Life on the Boat

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As I walked my dog this frigid morning, I saw a woman sweeping her fall leaves into four separate piles in the middle of the street. Although confused at her road-piles, I commented on her ability to be thorough. She gave me a quick smile and said, “Well, you know…” *turned away* mumble mumble mumble…
I figure she’s sweeping away some worries. Perhaps she’s pushing her burdens far enough away to where the wind will carry them because they’re just too heavy to hold, or maybe she just needs to keep moving.


Because, if you’re anyone who has gone through trials, you understand how sometimes you’ve got to keep moving, because, well, you know…
God knew that when Noah was stuck inside the boat while the world was dying all around him, he had to keep moving. The decks of mouths to feed, the piles of things that needed to be shoveled who-knows-where, back-breaking labor to endure—and you know it had to smell like heck, but he had to move because he was escorting humanity toward survival, and if he stayed still to think about the state of things, he would feel the weight of only what God can carry.
Sometimes, it seems like there’s too much to do—too many errands to run and rooms to clean and mouths to feed—it may be the time to put aside the busy work and rest. But there also comes a season where sweating it out is to purge what we can’t hold. Don’t forget–God’s still steering the boat.

How is your week coming along? May your labor lead to the promised land.

Direct Line to Hope

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I found myself waiting over an hour inside the walls of Phoenix Children’s Hospital yesterday. Even though my son no longer has colitis, his Dr. wants to keep him on his meds for now, so while the staff went on a scavenger hunt looking for his RX that had mysteriously gone missing, I looked around. Here is what you’ll see on the inside:
Children hiding bald heads underneath hats of various kinds. Toddlers, unaware of the kind of life that may be awaiting them, laughing and daring their exhausted parents to chase them. Mamas and Daddies using every ounce of energy to put on brave faces for their children. And themselves.


A number of outstanding staff, pulling red wagons around in case kids needed a ride in something other than a wheelchair. They smiled a lot. Their giftings in medicine and with children helped push hopelessness away, allowing for deep breaths in an otherwise heavy atmosphere.


The décor—it was near Disneyland-cheerful the way the colors and cartoons accented the place, although when a family is walking their child to a hospital room, walls are stifling no matter the paint.
What impacted me the most was the desire to pray for every one of them. I know what that walk is like to the testing room. The presence of fear in the waiting room.
But there I was, finally not the one to be escorting my child on a walk of courage, but a person among those who need miracles. I prayed for them, and realized something. God is telling me to pray—that means prayer is going to make a difference in someone’s life today. I may not ever see who or what, but I know from countless personal experiences, Prayer makes a difference.

If the Creator of the Universe nudges you to pray, it’s monumental, friends. It’s never, ever a waste of time. Blessings to you this Tuesday.

Feel welcome to post in the comments if you have a prayer request of your own.

 

*How prayer is beneficial in scientific terms.
*Americans are becoming more critical. (and why we need more prayer)

*Noah’s story

Back Porch Sitting

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I’ve got a compression bandage taped to my face, and I’m trusting this old plastic chair to hold me up because the Dr. said to be careful of the stitches in my back—“I only put in two,” she said.
I’ve been ordered to go home and sit still for a day after a slightly complicated morning of skin biopsies. “Watch the stupid TV,” she says with a smile. I love stupid TV. I also love sitting on the patio with my dog, which is what I’m doing now, wondering if this is why dogs are so happy—they relax. A lot.


It’s a bit unsettling for me to be still for a whole day, though, because I’m (as usual) behind on about 10 million projects, which makes it hard to find peace in the sitting, but as I stare at my happy dog and look at her beloved, dirty tennis ball laying a few yards ahead to where she points her nose, I realize that contentedness is in the hopes of what lies ahead, and in the ability to wait for it.

Just a Moment to Relax…Please?

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I met Chris Morris when I took a tax class from him at the 2016 Realm Makers Conference. Although I don’t speak Math, I found his class to be surprisingly interesting. Entertaining even. What I didn’t know at that time was the life-altering thing we did have in common–a child with chronic illness. Chris also struggles with a chronic illness of his own, and has written a wonderful book to help those affected by it, and who may even ask, “Where do I find God in all of this?”

Read on as Chris gives us a picture of navigating through life with his daughter’s challenges.

 

Dad…
Tap-tap-tap on the shoulder.
Daaa-aaad…
Here I was, trying to focus on God as we worshipped during small group, and my twelve-year-old son couldn’t even leave me alone here. I just wanted a single, solitary moment free of the kids. Sighing meaningfully, I opened my eyes and prepared to remind him that this was time to learn.
Then I saw the look in his eyes. A mixture of anger, embarrassment and helplessness. Instantly I knew what the problem was. Or rather, who the problem was. Familiar thoughts and worries flew into my mind.
I found myself paralyzed with fear, not wanting to deal with it again. A flush of tears stirred under my eyes. I felt lost. Before I could move past this and put my Father Hat on, my wife followed my son out of the room.
Twenty minutes later, she returned to the room. I caught her eye, and she mouthed to me that Cindy hit another child. Apparently our daughter didn’t get to play the Wii game she wanted to play, so she lost emotional control.

Every parent has been here, in this place. Your child is just not acting like you want them to. Like they should act. It seems they are not capable of behaving in public, so you remain on edge. Wondering when and where you will next have to “learn to manage” your child.
We have another level of challenge, one some of you may relate to. Our daughter is autistic and epileptic, so there are certain aspects of Cindy’s behavior that are beyond her ability (and ours) to “manage”.
So many myths about chronic illness can disrupt Cindy’s life and hold her hostage. Moments like her episode in small group remind my wife and I how vital it is to teach our daughter and her brothers the truth and empower them to live unhindered by these terrible lies.
We are all learning each day to push down the worries and focus on how to ensure our whole family knows the important things in life:
We are loved as we are by God.
We are accepted despite how we may act.
Cindy is not less-than because of her illnesses, and she is not defined by her chronic conditions.
She is more than her epilepsy, greater than her autism.

The last two statements above are very difficult to remember day-in and day-out. Surrounding us are people who do not understand. Who think my wife and I are just bad parents when Cindy is overwhelmed by too many stimuli, too much change. Worse yet, we regularly come across those who tell us we must lack faith since God has not healed our daughter yet.
And my daughter is not ignorant of these accusations. So we talk a lot about how her self-image should not and cannot be informed by others’ opinions.
But it’s hard, and we grow weary. So often we have felt as if we were entirely alone in our struggles. No friends to support us who really understood. Sure, they loved us, but they didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, what our daily life was like. This was our daily experience for a long time.
But no longer.
We have finally found a group of people who love our family, no strings attached, no judgment, just acceptance. We have stumbled into a group of people who place no judgment on our daughter, her seizures, her autism, or our parenting. Nothing brings peace to the troubled soul like an accepting community. A safe place.
Beyond community, practical resources are vital too. We spent many hours looking for books or seminars or focus groups to guide us on our journey, and to provide us a way to navigate through the minefield of myths.
We found nothing. So I created one. My book Perfectly Abnormal: Uncovering the Image of God in Chronic Illness walks through myths all sufferers of chronic illness will face. These lies can paralyze us, if we believe them. My book dissects eight of these myths, counteracts them with truth, and offers pointed questions to get us moving again. If you have a chronic illness, or love someone who has a chronic illness, please consider picking this book up. You can find Perfectly Abnormal on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or iBooks.

Bio:
Chris Morris writes about redefining normal and building hope in the face of chronic illnesses and special needs. His writing is founded on the belief that circumstances don’t prevent thriving, but create opportunities for God to demonstrate his goodness. By day, he is the founder and managing partner of the creatively named accounting firm Chris Morris CPA, so Chris brings a unique analytic perspective to deeply emotional topics. He writes at his blog, and you can also find him on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

For the Invisibles

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I’m at work after all the experts have gone home and the sun is making its final burn west when we Invisibles take the reins. We answer phones when nightly needs approach, we direct when the directors have retired for the day, we fix what we can when the fixers have clocked out, or make notes for their next shift.

Those of us who look young enough for college are assumed to be students, those of us who have more than a few laugh lines are assumed to be retired and working for something to do, and those, like me, who are somewhere in the middle, well….I get all kinds of reactions, but that’s beside the point. Only a few know I’m a struggling Author, but it doesn’t really matter here. I’m me to those who are interested, to others, I’m one of the Invisibles.

I leave my desk and accidentally fix a resident’s TV. I’m not sure how I did it, but I’m grateful God directed my hand because her TV is her only companion now. Her friend to eat dinner with and a distraction from the empty chair beside her. It’s a priority of the heart.

I make sure exterior doors are locked and that no one has fallen in the park.

I get called to a handicapped woman’s apartment—she was left with only two reliable words after she suffered a stroke: Me here.
“Me here,” she says as she leads me to the room that contains her problem. “Me here,” as she points to her computer.
“Me here,” as she directs me to her CPU that holds her disc captive. I pull it out and place it in its case that’s waiting on her desk. Photos of her family decorate the top, and she smiles huge when I hand it to her. She nods her head, holding it close to her body.

I wheel her back out of the tight storage room where she keeps her computer in and lean down, my hand on her arm, my eyes level with hers so she knows I see her.

“Me here,” she says as she places her palm on the side of my face.

“You’re welcome,” I say, my heart filling up.

As I turn to go, her mouth unleashes a few rare words. “Thank you.”
I smile again, one Invisible to another, and walk back to my desk feeling more successful than anything the Visible world has to offer.

 

I ponder her words, and wonder how many of us have lifted our heads to the sky and whispered, “I’m here. See me.”

 

“Beloved, there is no such thing as obscurity to Christ Jesus. The eyes of El Roi (‘the God who sees me Gen. 16:13-19) gaze approvingly upon every effort you make and every ounce of faith you exercise in Jesus’ name. You have not been forgotten! You have no idea what may lie ahead! No doubt remains in my mind that God spent this time testing and proving John’s character so that he could be trusted with the greatest revelation (Sherry’s note: the author is talking about the time period when John, the one Jesus loved, had little mention in the Bible while Paul and Peter took stage after Christ’s crucifixion). The answers God is willing to give us in our tomorrows flow from our faithfulness when we have none today.” Beth Moore in The Beloved Disciple

Little champions

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So I’ve became a runner again. Sort of. I’m the part-time turtle, actually, following behind my daughter’s cross country team in case one of them should fall, get sick, or get lost. I waited a week to give all the other parents ample opportunity to offer their services, but it turns out they go into hiding when the word run is offered to them. And when I say hide, I mean they find faraway places where only God can find them. I kind of wish I had joined them.

My feet—these 41-yr-old feet—have faced a lot of abuse in my youth. Hand-me-down tennis shoes from my brother, growing up in a countryside only the tough and gangly inhabit, a school bus stop light years from our house, pregnancy, but most of all—ballet. Yes, those pretty-pink satin slippers are not for the weak. Squishing my feet into them year after year produced a lot of good things, but one big fat ugly one—one ghost of the stage that won’t leave me alone: aches and pains. They can take quite a bit of activity as long as I don’t run or tread upward too much.

I thought about bowing out, I mean, who can chase after youth-sugar-hyper-fueled athletes, with damaged feet? But then C sprained her ankle, the coach is without an assistant this year, and thoughts of her limping behind her team MILES away from any adult to protect her kept me tossing and turning until I finally gave in and did that volunteer thing.

Like I have time.

So once or twice a week, I throw on my Sketchers and run down pain alley.

And then, my day job picked up. My usual one to two days a week turned into five because one of my coworkers got stuck in Florida, I’m behind authorly deadlines and now I’m running on fumes.

Can you hear me panting?

And now my feet say they need a break, so I’m thinking about pulling out my bicycle. Hmm. What does a mother do?

She does what all those facing a hurricane do. She says, “Lord, it’s all you now. Just you.”
And then I remember there’s no better place for my daughter to be, or thoughts of family and stranded co-workers facing a mighty storm, and for these feet that just won’t run any farther: In God’s hands.

His care and creativity surpass anything a volunteer can fix. He can calm a hurricane to a tropical storm, and he can run alongside all those little ones, miles from their nests.

Maybe he lets the storms strand us for a while so we can remember His capable hands again.

The Summer Files: There’s a Light at the End

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The last week of July, I attended the annual Realm Makers conference–a writers conference for Christian authors of speculative fiction (although all are welcome). As advertised, it isn’t your grandmother’s writers conference–meaning we aren’t afraid to walk into Zacchaeus’ house (despite the judgements of those standing outside) to bring him a meaningful story.

Ted Dekker gave the keynote speech, and the word he used that stood out to me was perception. Your perception determines your experience in this life.
Does it?
My family picked me up afterwards, and we headed for Yellowstone. My son, who has struggled with health problems his whole life, charged along the trails like a monkey on speed. “Best vacation ever!” he kept saying. In the heat, the endless steps in Mammoth Hot Springs, with the odor of sulphur permeating the air. He only saw awesomeness. It’s amazing how a captivatingly beautiful land can reside within such stench.


To pick on Noah for practically dragging me along, I messed with his Batman hat until he told me, “Mommy. Don’t touch the darkness.” He illustrated this concept by hopping around the shadows, stepping only where the sun touched the ground. He’s had enough darkness, trust me, but he has this in-born joy that keeps him from falling into it. He’s my superhero.
My daughter, poor thing, is a worrier. She dreaded being separated from me for the few days I spent in Reno, and let that cloud any excitement over our trip…until she got there. When J handed her the camera, and gave her the job as family photographer, she saw the world through a whole new lens.
The light even gave her a kiss.

 

There’s a jagged edge between light and dark. The secret is not in the proximity, but where you direct your eyes.

The Summer Files: Day 48

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Summertime is a challenge for this mom. Like many creatives, I’m one of those personalities that needs a good dose of silence and S-P-A-C-E to recharge. So do hermits, as I’ll explore below (But I’m not a hermit).

What keeps you going? Is it hope around the corner, or the work ethic you’ve come to rely on year after year? Or are you tired, and at the point where you want to throw up your hands and disappear from this world we live in? I just finished reading The Stranger in the Woods, a true story of a man who lived as a hermit for 27 years in the back woods Maine. Overwhelmed with life, he walked into the wilderness one day, and stayed there until society absorbed him again.

He was finally captured when technology had become more advanced than he knew how to manage. Devices from Homeland Security were installed in the camp kitchen from where he had stolen food for the last 2+ decades, finally ending his career in solitude.

Experts studied him. He was an anomaly; overwhelmed by the noise and “color” of civilization, his health started to decline. Usually, solitude will eventually drive a normal-functioning person to madness, but not Chris Knight. In fact, the lack of human contact along with his technology-free mind (as explained in greater detail in the book) seemed to have sharpened his senses.

He never became sick. His injuries were never serious enough to need medical attention. He ate the same processed food we eat, of course, considering he stole food to survive. So what was it that preserved him? Was it freedom from the criticism/judgment that erodes us day to day? The freedom that comes when you don’t have to do the job of three people to stay employed?

 

Dr.’s decided he had some form of Asperger’s Syndrome, depression, or Schizoid personality disorder—some kind of unusual brain chemistry that gave him a pass on the social interaction most of us need for healthy mental function.

Strangely, when Knight tried to describe his experience as a hermit, he said, “Solitude bestows an increase in something valuable. I can’t dismiss that idea. Solitude increased my perception. But here’s the tricky thing: when I applied my increased perception to myself, I lost my identity. There was no audience. No one to perform for. There was no need to define myself. I became irrelevant.”

Anxiety/stress/depression are overtaking our country (USA). Sometimes the pressure of our day to day lives becomes so overwhelming, we dump our stress onto each other in unkind comments/rumors/criticism/ manipulation, etc., without realizing what we’re doing to our culture. Although kind words, encouragement, patience and all things good are still part of our construct, and hopefully, these will become the colors that shine brighter than those in shades of misery.

Because we need each other. Even the hermits.

 

God sees our struggles. He knows our fatigue with trying to keep pace, as well as the fruitfulness that comes from goodness and the sometimes-agony of perseverance.

Galatians 6:9 And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

 

What keeps you trudging along with, you know, “people”? Leave your words in the comments below.

 

The Map

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Sometimes, God makes no sound. Is He dead, or has He turned His face from us? Sometimes, when faith gets wrung from me, I sit outside and watch for Him in the sky, and in the trees that stand guard over our backyard.

In his prayers a month ago, Noah thanked God for healing all who we had asked of him…
“…except me,” his voice squeaked out. That’s the only time I’ve heard Noah complain—or notice—miracles in so many lives except his own. He did have one miracle, just not the big one we hope for, and in the enduring it’s easy to forget that silence doesn’t mean nonexistent.
Will this—however long this will be—keep my boy wondering if God hears him?

I pick up a book that’s been patiently waiting its turn on my growing pile: Falling into Place by Hattie Kauffman, news correspondent.

While on a drive, waiting for her soon-to-be ex-husband to leave the house, Hattie came upon a sixteen foot statue of Jesus overlooking a set of dumpsters on a college campus. After growing up hungry and neglected, she had to face cancer and alcoholism as an adult, and carried burdens she didn’t know how to handle. One night, she came upon this statue, wondering why it had been placed by the garbage heap. Shouldn’t it be in the center of campus?

Memories of her childhood are scattered throughout the book, like the day she was so hungry, and she found a peach to eat in a dead tree that stood in her yard. That moment, high in the tree’s branches, she felt a tangible presence wrap around her, and knew it was God. But hungry days and neglectful parents darkened her perspective. Anger draped its ugly wings over her eyes and ears. At age fifteen, while on the phone to her Aunt Teddy (a missionary), the one stable presence in her life, the bitterness of a hard life rushed out in her audible rejection of God.

But He pursued her. In a promise from a woman she interviewed for TV, through her Aunt Teddy, and in many things most of us would brush off as coincidence.

In her book, Hattie’s childhood memories are woven within her experience of going through divorce, and what we’re given is a map to God, one whisper at a time.

She learned to surrender, and to pray. Again, she gets in her car and drives to the trash heap to find the statue of Jesus.

“It suddenly seemed fitting that Jesus watched over the garbage dump—the junk of humanity.”

Is it You, God? A good question to consider when you suspect his whisper in unexpected places.