Cocooning - Insight into What Life Will Look Like for Us When We Get Home

It’s. Time.

Paperwork is being gathered, bags are being packed, and on Monday, as in THIS Monday, Derek and I will be boarding a plane and making the long trek to India.  (Still in total, complete shock over here...)

THANK YOU to all of you who have prayed for us, given financially, or just asked about the process. The support we have felt has been overwhelming and it is taking all I have not to walk around a continual, blubbering mess right now.

I wanted to give a little insight into what the next few months will be like for our family and tell you how you can help.

Pearl has lived just about every single day of her two short years in an orphanage, supposedly a “good” one, but still an institutionalized orphanage. She comes from a multiple-caregiver situation, has been taken care of by devoted nannies, but she has never known the concept of a Mom or Dad.

In her world, any adult in the room (most especially women) are there to take care of her. We will be spending the next year teaching her, and demonstrating to her, that we are Mom and Dad.

We will need to teach her to trust, love, and attach/bond with us.

Our prayer is that she will attach to us, and her sisters, but ultimately to her good, good, heavenly Father.

The best way for us to teach her these things is by “cocooning”, which basically means we'll be circling our wagons and hunkering down with our little family for a while.

She will be overwhelmed by foreign people, foreign smells, foreign language, etc. when we come home. It will take time for her to feel safe and secure with us.

For her sake alone, we will make her world small by not taking her out very much, or introducing her to too many people or places at first. We will essentially attempt to recreate the newborn/parent connection that she missed out on.

This principle is not permanent, but absolutely necessary in the beginning.

The best way for us to do this is by Derek and I being the ones to feed, hold, hug, instruct, and soothe Pearl. As we repeat these things over and over again, she will learn that Mom and Dad are to be trusted and loved.

 

Once Pearl establishes these bonds with us, she will be able to branch out and build other relationships (yay!)

You guys can play an important role in all of this.  We ask you to set physical boundaries at first. For a little while, this would include things like holding, excessive hugging or kissing, etc. Children from these backgrounds tend to attach very easily to anyone and everyone. 

Things like waving, high fives, and blowing kisses are TOTALLY appropriate & welcomed!

Also it will help in the healing process, if you guys redirect Pearl to us. If she comes to you for food, or to be picked up, or for emotional nurturing (like if she gets hurt), you redirecting her to me or to Derek, will help tremendously in us establishing who we are as Mom and Dad, those she can absolutely trust to meet whatever need she has.

We pray that Pearl’s healing will come quickly, but we also understand that this is a life-long journey for her and us.

We are heading into the trenches, y’all.

Please pray for Derek, Gloria, Grace, Pearl and me during this time.

Pearl is one super blessed little girl to have so many people who love her, who are cheering for her and are praying for her already!

Thank you for loving us so well!

Funeral Rock Stars

"It's going to be terrible.  It's going to be awful.  It's not going to be any fun. You're going to see and talk to tons of people you don't know.  But we all have to do it.  Unfortunately, this is just part of life."

These are the words Derek spoke to our girls as he explained the plans for both the upcoming visitation and the funeral.

Terrible because of the tears.  Awful because of the reason we had to be there.

Two days prior he'd gotten the shocking phone call.  His 74 year old father, Owen, had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away following routine knee replacement surgery.  As one family friend expressed during visitation, "He went in for a new knee and came out with a new life."

As difficult, as heart-breaking as this news was to bear, we are confident of Derek's father's presence now. We know his unwavering faith in his unwavering Savior is now full-out, glorious sight.

"Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body, we are away from the Lord. We live by faith, not by sight.  We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.  So we make it our goal to please Him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it." 2 Cor. 5:19

We've been to funerals.  Several lately, unfortunately.  But this was the first time in our adult lives Derek and I had to play an active, intimate role because we're immediate family.

This was the first time my husband had to sit for over two hours at a funeral home and assist in making arrangements.  The first time he had to listen to casket options and help decide the number of death certificates needed, wording on the obituary and the pictures needed for the slideshow.

This was hard stuff.  For Derek's mother, Carol, his two brothers, their wives, and his aunt and uncle.  The hard stuff no one wants to do.  But from my perspective, the stuff they all handled like total and complete rock stars.

Visitation at the funeral home was scheduled to be three hours long.  But the crowd.

People stood in line for hours to pay their respects and to offer their condolences.

I shouldn't have been surprised at the overwhelming number of people. Owen (and Carol, too) have lived their entire lives in that area, rooted in their community.  They raised their children there and Derek's brothers and families are doing the same there; we live nearly two hours away.

Owen had also been an active member of his church for over 35 years, serving as a deacon and even being employed there as head of custodial management after he'd entered retirement nearly 15 years ago.

For six long hours, my mother-in-law lovingly embraced each and every visitor who stepped up to the casket and in front of her. As friends shared their cherished memories and favorite moments of the man she'd been married to for 52 years, she listened intimately, maintaining eye contact, giving them her undivided attention, soaking in every word as a lifeline.

And I watched her in complete amazement.

Though weak, she was clothed with strength.
Though broken, she was altogether lovely.
Though needy herself, she lifted up and ministered to others while they grieved.

Her sons, Kevin, Micah, and Derek, remained like stalwart soldiers by her side.

Carol Anne and Denny, Owen's sister and brother-in-law, were a constant presence for my mother-in-law. Always in the background, always serving. Always thinking of others' needs. Always assisting. Always helping. Always seeing the needs before anyone else did.

Derek had told me how his aunt and uncle had been invaluable throughout the first few days of this family tragedy, but I got to witness it with my own two eyes while I was down there.  No doubt they'll continue to be the tangible hands and feet of Jesus for Carol as the days go on. Because that's just who they are.

As the evening progressed and some of the grandchildren grew restless, Derek's cousin's wife from Tennessee, affectionately known as "Aunt Sue", volunteered to take them down to the sunroom in the funeral home. Their attention span spent there, she then offered to take them back to Carol's house, feed them dinner, let them play and watch them while we were away.  Who does that?  Aunt Sue, that's who.

Rob and Joel, the vocalists at the funeral, led those in attendance in full-out worship (because that's what Owen would've wanted) and Pastor Larry, Owen's pastor, proclaimed the love of Christ with the gospel (because that's what Owen would've wanted) and three individuals said, "Yes" to Jesus and his offer of salvation. Three new creations in Christ.  At my father-in-law's funeral, y'all.

Food abounded at the house.  Countless containers of casseroles, cakes and cookies, too many to fit in Carol's refrigerator, have provided continuous nourishment for the entire family, those from out-of-town and those in-town.  Flowers, cards, phone calls, text messages, and visitors have poured in over the past week and provided much comfort to those on the receiving end.

Love demonstrated in a million ways, big and small to the entire Fort family. People have shown up and God has shown off.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows." 2 Cor. 1:3-5

The death of Derek's father will leave an irreplaceable hole in the family.  He loved us all and prayed for us all, particularly his seven grandchildren.  Over the last several years, he got to see each and every one of them baptized following individual personal confessions of faith in Jesus' sacrificial work on the cross for them.

But for us, one of the biggest losses is the fact that he won't be at the airport the day we arrive home from India. He'll never meet his eighth grandchild.  From the moment we shared our plans to adopt, Owen was beyond excited.  He loved that we were adopting. He loved hearing all the crazy, exciting, up/down details along the way.  And he loved the day we called to tell them we'd finally been matched with our girl.

Before I was even halfway through explaining the story, he stopped me.  He wanted to pause, to pray and to give thanks to God for what He'd done in our journey so far.  He believed big for us and prayed big for us and his Indian granddaughter.  He was most definitely one of our biggest supporters and we'll never forget that.

It's been a tough week since the funeral and yet, the hardest days lie ahead. Specifically for Carol.  She has to figure out a new day-to-day normal. She has to make decisions. She has to face the quietness and the loneliness.  So understandably, our thoughts, our concerns, our prayers are for her now, because she needs them.

Though she often referred to her husband as her "rock", I know she's leaning on, holding on and standing on the Rock, her Lord, her Redeemer right now. And I'm confident, too, her Rock is leaning in, holding her, and standing right there with her as well.  Because that's just what He does.

Sunday's Coming, but Today is Friday

I know Sunday is coming.

But today is Friday.

Even though my lips would rather sing and rejoice, my soul must mourn and grieve.

I remember Jesus.

Eating His last meal.
Breaking the bread.
Pouring the wine.
Instructing them to remember Him.
Washing their feet.
Being betrayed.
Agonizing in prayer.
Arrested in the night.
Accused, beaten, bloodied.

Before I can celebrate His resurrection, I have to consider His death.

His brutal, necessary death.  On that infamous cross.

Every morning I wake up, I see this on my bedroom wall.

Every morning it reminds me I live because Jesus died. 
For me, for you.  To save us sinners from ourselves.

Not on a fancy, scrolly, ornate cross, but a massive, splintered tool of execution.

The encompassing darkness of death. Then...the illuminating light of eternal life.
Temporary, hushed hopelessness.  Then...the resounding promise of forever.
Significant, remarkable loss.  Then...triumphant, victorious gain.
The weight of unbearable agony.  Then...the weight of unparalleled glory.

Don't run ahead.  Go there. 
Sit in the horror-filled, blackness of Friday. 

Ponder the Lamb led to slaughter. 
Marvel at the humble obedience to His Father. 
Be engulfed.  Be overwhelmed by His relentless, persistent love.

Yes! Praise the Father that Sunday's coming. 

 

But today... 

Today is Friday.

Sore Loser?

The other day I wanted Heaven.  Like really, really wanted it.

 

I wanted all that I know to be true about it. 

 

I wanted perfection.  And purity.  And health.  And right.  And full.  And joy.

 

No problems.  No pain.  No tears.  No wrong.  No lack.  No loss.

 

I just really wanted Heaven.  For me and for so many others.

 

I've noticed these times of longing happen periodically.  But mostly, whenever I'm sensing lack or loss.  Which is where I was.  Which in some ways is where I still am.

 

An experience or a reminder and that earthly feeling of emptiness settles in my soul and I don't like it.  I don't like empty or lack or loss.

 

I like full.  I like a full belly after a meal.  A full pantry after a trip to the grocery store.  A calendar full of activities.  A full bank account.  Full experiences.  Full opportunities.  I don't like empty.

 

I didn't like it seven years ago this month when we had one of our most profound losses.  When one day we were celebrating life.  And weeks later, mourning loss.  When hope and expectation filled my womb, only to be followed by emptiness.  When the label "miscarried" replaced "pregnant".

 

And I still don't like empty today.

 

According to wise Solomon, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

 

If I take the fullness in one season, I have to be able to deal with the lack in another. 

Last week, my girls stayed home with a babysitter while my husband and I attended a meeting at church.  When we got home, we received a not-so-great report from my oldest daughter about our youngest daughter's behavior. 

On two different occasions, she acted out because things didn't quite go her way. 

She didn't want to take her turn being "IT" during a game of tag.  Then in the midst of trying to decide on a movie to watch, she expressed her discontent because she lost a round of  "Eeny, meeny, miney, moe" as well as "Whoever guesses the number gets to choose"--two well-played attempts by our sitter to be fair about the selection process.

This isn't the first time we've seen our youngest behave this way.  She's a six year old who doesn't like to lose (I mean, what six year old does?).  As her parents, one of our present tasks is helping her learn to deal with loss and not grow up with a "sore loser" label attached to her cute little forehead.

As my husband and I sat in her room that night explaining her offense and discussing consequences with her, I felt the Spirit nudge me, too.

How are you dealing with your current losses? 

With fussing?  Complaining?  Pouting?  With a disagreeable spirit?  With a "That's not fair" attitude? 

Or with acceptance?  And patience?  And prayer?

As I wrestled this out with the Lord,  I asked, "What do I do with all of this?  When I see loss and lack in my world and in others' worlds?  When Heaven is not an option right now, Lord?"

His quiet, but clear response was this...

Have it to the full.  Abundance.  His reminder of what He gives.   

He gives life.  And He promises to give it to the full.

Then suddenly a flood of other reminders rushed at me. 

This...

 

And this...

 

And this...

All reminders that my Father's speciality is fullness.

These empty, filled with loss, moments and seasons have the potential for great purpose. 

But only if we take them to the One whose fullness can crowd them out.

So that's what I'm asking during this season.

Father, fill me with Your fullness.  Let it crowd out the empty places.  The places where I see and feel lack and loss.  Help me not to be a sore loser.  And may I be content on the days when I really just want Heaven.  Thank you for coming.  Thank you for promising life to the full.

Struggling with Wonderful

The fact that it's Monday and it's rained all day doesn't help.

The fact that nearly every social media post and every news report on television screams a reminder of the horrific tragedy last Friday in Connecticut.

The fact that my husband steps into a public school everyday and works with middle schoolers, often undisciplined, unstable, unpredictable middle schoolers.

The fact that my uncle remains in the hospital after a week's stay, fighting for his life and facing surgery tomorrow from a staph infection, finally identified and located in his spine.

The fact that days before Christmas, my friend's young son, also waits in the hospital, recovering from serious surgery following his year-long battle with bone cancer.

The fact that another dear friend is nursing her husband back to health after his near-death accident, falling 24 feet, head-first off a ladder, onto a concrete driveway.  Never did my friend expect hanging a wreath above a garage would lead to her husband's jaw being wired shut, missing teeth, broken bones, and a near loss of his life.

The fact that another friend's desperate wish to have her adopted son home from India before Christmas appears to be dimming.

The fact that I know of three precious women, newly and unexpectedly widowed this Christmas, facing the days and traditions ahead without their husbands, alone.

The fact that I continue to read from organizations about more children being taken, tortured and trafficked against their will, every hour, here and across the globe.

The fact that so many of my friends and family members have succumbed to seasonal illnesses such as the flu and stomach bugs.

And finally, the fact that in one day we seem to be losing light in our house--with a third of the Christmas lights on one of our trees burned out and two prominent lamps' bulbs as well.

Staring at the tree and the lamps, I can't help but feel the same.  A little less shiny.  A little less bright.  Struggling to stay lit, fighting against the darkness.  Dimming in the midst of today.

On the radio, Christmas carols play.  One in particular catches my attention.  The tune is popular and inviting.  But today, I struggle with the lyrics, meaning what I sing.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

Is it?  Wonderful?  Isn't it supposed to be? 

So, why is it so hard to believe this week, particularly in light of recent events?  Especially in such darkness?

My pastor asked this question of us yesterday, "How does God respond to darkness?" 

His answer: "Jesus". 

Why?  Because He's the Light of the world.  And light always threatens darkness.

Jesus.  Immanuel, "God with us".  He was here thousands of years ago because we needed Him then. He's here today because we need Him now.  Desperately need Him now.

In this dark world, we still have the chance to be brighter.  Brighter than the evil and uncertainty that surrounds us. 

"...declaring the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light." 

1 Peter 2:9

So, today I go back to the prophecy of Scripture.  I exchange my struggling thoughts and struggling questions to Someone who can counsel me.

Not just any counselor.  A Wonderful Counselor. 

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders.  And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."

Isaiah 9:6

He is wonderful when the world is not.  His wonderful act of coming to us, rescuing us from the darkness of our sin, gave us the light of life.  And because of Him, we are given a wonderful life.  Forever.

Focusing on that truth, celebrating His wonderful acts and wonderful works on our behalf, reminds me what this season truly is...the most wonderful time of the year. 

Love Big

Yesterday was hard.  So painful and so sacred.  So real and so unrelenting.

An unwanted day occupied with grief and finality.  A day filled with remembering a life and reflecting on its legacy. 

As Matt's friends, many of us have felt smothered by this blanket of sadness.  We cannot imagine.  We do not understand.

But we also cannot fathom how much more his beautiful wife, his young children, and his loving family are struggling to take a breath.  To breathe through the sudden separation and the unexpected loss.

As they face the days, months and years ahead without their hero, we are compelled. 

Compelled to pray.  For peace and comfort.  For grace and strength. 
Compelled to carry.  To carry the loss and the loneliness.  To carry the daily burdens of life.

And without a doubt, we will also be challenged by the testimony of Matt's life.

Matt was a big man with a big heart.  And consequently, he loved big. 

His Savior, Jesus.
His wife, Amy.
His son, Levi.
His daughter, Sydney.
His family.
His friends.
His church.
His children's school.
His Georgia Bulldogs.
And football.

His passionate nature made the expression of his love big.  His service was big.  His devotion was big. 

Nothing small about it.  Nothing at all.

No one had any reservations as to where his affections resided. 

"... Love each other deeply with all your heart."

1 Peter 1:22b (NLT)

Which begs a difficult and challenging question of myself.

Do I love big?

Granted, love is often demonstrated in a million, tiny, unseen actions. 
But it can also be demonstrated in a million, grandiose, boisterous gestures as well.

Do those I love know I love them? 
Do my husband and my daughters see visible, tangible evidence of my love for them? 
Are there any doubts as to the devotions of my heart?

There were no doubts regarding Matt.

He loved big here on earth. 

And now he's loving big there, in heaven, spending forever with the One who loved him big first.

"We love because He first loved us."

1 John 4:19 (NIV)



T-shirt created in honor of Matt & his legacy

Beautiful Things Out of the Dust

I opened the book and began to read some basic facts about the infamous volcano to my girls.

Washington state.  1980.  Eruption.  Mount St. Helens.

If the pictures of the mountain before the catastrophic event were worth a thousand words, then the comparison photographs after the explosion were worth two thousand.

Complete and utter devastation. 

Fifty-seven lives lost.  Hundreds and hundreds of homes, bridges, and miles of highway destroyed.  Wildlife obliterated.  Left in its aftermath was an enormous hole in the side of the mountain, hardened lava and layers upon layers of dust and ash.

Pristine rivers.  Gone.  Lush plants.  Gone.  Wild animals.  Gone.  Towering forests.  Gone. 

My girls and I were stunned by the stark difference in the mountain's appearance before the explosion and its appearance afterwards. We were quieted by the power of the event and its effect on the land.

Then...we turned the page in the book.

The image we saw in the very next photograph caught our attention. Budding forth from its resilient shell was a tiny green sprout, stretching toward the sunlight, unhindered by the hardness and dust enveloping it.

Where death and destruction once reigned, life now returned.

My eight year old made a pretty profound statement.  A truth she'd gleaned from church.

Looking at the book she said, "Mommy, that's a picture of hope.  Believing something good can come out of something bad."

Who would've thought any kind of growth, any kind of life, any kind of hope could come after such an explosive event? 
Who would've guessed wild animals would return to roam the mountainside? 
Who would've thought plants could grow and thrive in the midst of those conditions? 
Who would've thought any good could come out of something so bad?

Meet my beautiful friend, Misty. 

Having lunch @ the Cheesecake Factory - Spring 2012

Misty and I met at Shorter College almost nineteen years ago during my freshman year.  She and I hit it off right away.  We spent most of our time laughing in class and soon became fast friends.  When I pledged the same sorority she was already a member of, she chose me as her little sister. 

Shorter College White Rose Formal - Winter 1994

Not only did we spend our college days living the good life, but we were there for each other when the circumstances of life were not so good.  We encouraged each other's walk in the Lord and truly became sisters in the faith.

We served as bridesmaids in each other's weddings. We supported each other as we both entered the realm of motherhood and we did our best to stay in touch despite living states away from one another.

One of Misty's visits back to Georgia - Spring 2009

Then one cold January day in 2010, I got a heart wrenching phone call from my friend.

The Day family the summer before Misty's diagnosis - July 2009

She desperately needed prayer.  She was experiencing severe yet numbing pain in her lower back and had no definitive answers for the cause.  In the months that followed, multiple tests were run on her body and her blood.  At times, she was bound to a wheelchair, completely unable to walk or move without excruciating pain. 

The comfortable, content, care-free world she'd known erupted around her when she was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a form of bone marrow cancer.

In the last two and a half years, Misty has had to endure some of the most horrific tests, surgeries, and treatments out there for cancer patients.  She has fought with intense bravery.  She has fought with perseverance.  She has fought with Divine power.  And she has waited patiently while her Healer has fought for her. 

Earlier this year, she was told she was in partial remission.  Things were going well, but because the type of cancer she had was slow-growing, it was unfortunately also slow-dying.  She returned to the cancer institute at the beginning of this month for more tests and more treatments, fully expecting to resume the battle for another year or possibly more.

Then four days ago, she posted a picture which caused me to stop completely in my tracks.  The news caused me to jump up and down and bust out my very own happy dance!

Complete remission = CANCER FREE!

Following a devastating explosion in her life, a trail of destruction spread out for miles, and a hardened blanket of ash upon her, hope bursts forth from the dust!

The war she has waged for far too long is over.  Healing has won.  Hope has won.  Life has won.

The page has been turned.  And all things are being made new.

Hope - believing something good CAN (and WILL) come out of something bad

Thank You so much, Lord. 

In Your sovereignty, sometimes You heal; sometimes You do not. 
Thank You for choosing to heal my friend. 
Thank You for letting all of us "bring her to You" through prayer.

You are our Healer, our Hope and our Life. 
Thank You for making beautiful things out of the dust.

(There is a song called, "Beautiful Things" which makes me think of my beautiful friend and our beautiful Savior.  We just happened to sing it at church the Sunday after we read the book about Mount St. Helens here at home and a couple of days after my lunch date with Misty.)

Click here to hear the song. 

Raising My White Flag

Job is a hard book to read.  Of all the books in the Bible, it’s the one I most often try to avoid.

Why?  Because Job is a hard-to-understand account of a man (a mighty, mighty good man I might add) who experiences unexplainable and unfathomable loss.  A man and his suffering.

Similar to the childhood game, “Mother, may I?” in which the player asks a question and waits for permission to be granted before acting, our accuser enters the presence of God, with just one question:  “God, may I?”  God’s response:  “Yes, you may.”

And in a flash, all that Job has ever known or ever possessed is gone. 

His children.  His possessions.  His health.  His position in the community.  His reputation. 

Job was stripped of everything.  Everything except his wife and his life.

Stripped.  All he had was taken from him.  All of this happened to him.  And God allowed it. 

As soon I come up for a breath from reciting this prayer, “Lord, please don’t allow all I have and all I know to be stripped away from me”, another word, a very different word, comes to mind. 

Surrender.

Surrendering is something I do, not something done to me.  Willingly, I choose to give something over to Someone else.  It’s not just a single action, but a posture in life.  It’s raising my white flag high above my head with the declaration, “I give up.  I hand it over it to You.  You win.”

But surrendering is hard.  For some reason, I think by hanging on to my “thing”, I am more capable of handling it or protecting it or making it more prosperous. 

In clenched fists, I hold on when God is telling me to let go.  To trust Him.  To surrender.

Just like last Christmas when an opportunity arose for our family to help some refugees from Bhutan, a tiny country north of India.

We were asked to collect blankets, winter clothing and coats to give these men, women, and children who had literally just stepped off the plane in cold Atlanta only wearing sandals and the clothes on their back.  My husband and I gathered what we were willing to give and asked others to do the same. 

The very Sunday we were to travel to Atlanta to take these items to the refugees and others already here from India, I got dressed for church, put on my brand-new coat I had only purchased days before, and walked out the door.

While donning my very new, very nice, very perfect coat, I got into the car while my husband loaded up the bags of old, worn coats into the trunk.  Without warning, I sensed these words in my spirit, “Oh, and don’t forget to give the coat off your back, too.”

“What?  Seriously, Lord?  Not my new coat.  Please.  How about I go inside and find another older coat to give?”

But even as I tried to wrestle with God over a silly coat, I knew what He was really asking.  It wasn’t even about the coat.  It was about my heart being willing to let go.  Would I give Him my best?  Would I think of others more than I think of myself?  Would I surrender to Him?

I wore my new coat to church for the first and the last time that day.  And then later in the afternoon, I carried it into the tiny apartment in Atlanta and laid it on the sofa as an offering.  Not to the refugees taking up residence there.  Not to the woman who would later wear it because she desperately needed it.  But to my God.  To the One who willingly laid down His life for me. 

Then I walked away.  Not dwelling on what I’d given up.  But thinking about what I would gain.  A more generous, giving heart.  Something I’d been praying to have.

“No matter what we give up, we are given so much more.”

~ Margaret Feinberg, The Sacred Echo

I wish I could say from that moment on, I continue to surrender my best, my all, with open hands.  But the truth is, I look down and find them closed and clenched far more often than I should.  It’s a daily surrender.  A daily death to myself.  A daily offering to Him.

At my church, we sing a song by worship leader, Chris Tomlin, entitled “White Flag”.

The lyrics are so incredibly powerful.  Read them below or click on the link to hear the song.

"White Flag" by Chris Tomlin

We raise our white flag.  We surrender all to You.  It’s all to You.

We raise our white flag.  The war is over.  Love has come.  Your love has won.

What could we lose by surrendering everything we have to Christ?  Better yet, what could we gain?

Then he told them what they could expect for themselves: "Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You're not in the driver's seat—I am. Don't run from suffering; embrace it. Follow me and I'll show you how. Self-help is no help at all. Self-sacrifice is the way, my way, to finding yourself, your true self. What good would it do to get everything you want and lose you, the real you?” Luke 9:23-25 (The Message)

(Since the first of this year, I've been reading through the Bible with an amazing group of ladies--the Shine girls, led by an even more amazing friend, Jill. We've been camped out in the book of Job for weeks now. Jill asked me if I would consider writing for Shine's blog.  I wrote this piece and it posted today. Click here to read the post and also to see what God has been doing and how He is using Jill and a multitude of others to shine for Him.) :)

In the Storm

Biopsy. CT scan. Surgery. Malignant. Port. MRI. Bone scan. Chemo. Cancer.

Not one of these terms ever crossed my friends' minds two weeks ago. Two weeks ago they were a happy, active family thinking only of all-star baseball, swimming, and making plans to get down to the beach. Now, less than two weeks later, they are striving to navigate the raging winds, the crashing waves, and the drenching rains of the worst storm of their adult lives.

Their six year old son is the one in need of rescue, in need of deliverance, in need of healing. And his parents are right there with him in the fragile boat as it’s being tossed about in the tumultuous waters.

Just this past week my dear friends' son was diagnosed with an extremely rare kind of bone cancer--Ewings Sarcoma. He had not one symptom before, but then a small, suspicious lump on his left jawbone became the first indication something wasn't quite right. Even after ingesting nearly two rounds of antibiotics, the lump continued to grow and consequently, more urgent action was taken.

Now this active little boy is experiencing things no child should have to face in his or her lifetime. He's being as brave and as strong as he possibly can, mustering courage neither he, nor his parents, even knew he possessed. He's already being described as a "hero" by those who know him and love him the most.

No one who has ever battled cancer wants cancer. Not one soul raises his or her hand and willingly volunteers to take on this brutal disease. Cancer is non-discriminative.  It doesn’t care who it attacks—male, female, adult, child.  Unfortunately, over and over again we hear stories of those who are now forced to face this vicious giant head on.  My friends’ son has just now been added to that sacred list.

The journey ahead of this family is unknown. Not even the physicians can predict exactly what will happen during treatment, in between treatments, and even post-treatment. They can only suspect what will transpire. They can only guess. The family can only imagine. And hope. And pray.

So, without hesitation, that’s what we do.  We pray.  We pray.  And we pray.  We appeal to our Father, carrying our burdens, our cares and our worries to Him. And then, we revel in the fact that in a host of unknowns, we know the sovereign One who knows it all-- how this chapter in the story of their lives began and ultimately, how it will end.

As believers in the risen Son of God, we have hope--great hope, “hope as our anchor, firm and secure.” We can trust all of the question marks in our minds to the One who pens the story Himself. We can fall back into His arms, letting go and letting Him hold all things together by His strong hands. We can rest knowing He sees, He hears and He acts on behalf of His children.

We are not left alone to fight these battles ourselves, because “the LORD is our warrior”. The Word promises He goes on ahead of us to prepare the way. We are told to stand firm, watch Him work and wait for our deliverance.

When we hear of these storms, these trials, these times of suffering in others' lives or we are experiencing them first-hand, we desperately need to hold on, clinging to the One who "even the winds and waves obey." We have to remember we are not alone. Repeatedly, His Word reminds us to "Fear not", because He is with us. His Word promises us we will not be consumed, even when it seems the waters and the rivers are rising around us, even when it seems we are walking straight through the fire. The waters will not sweep over us and we will not be burned (Isaiah 43).

Rest assured.  He is with us.  Always.  He will never leave us.  The "Father of compassion" and the "God of all comfort" is with us.  In the midst of the storm.  Especially, in the midst of the storm.