Last night, I did something I very rarely do.

I went to our women’s Bible study.

I only stayed about 15 minutes, long enough to see and visit with everyone.  I didn’t stay because if I joined the study, I would miss the next three weeks do to other obligations, graduation and an upcoming business trip.  But I wanted to at least “show my face” and encourage them in the beginning of this new study.  I would have loved to have joined the group permanently, but my schedule just isn’t allowing it this upcoming cycle.

But, it was so great to be there, even if just for 15 minutes.  The entire room was packed out with ladies not only from our church, but from other churches as well.  I was especially thrilled to get to sit and visit with two of my friends from “my second church”, Rising Sun Baptist Church, who have joined the study.

The funny thing is, though, is that I was there long enough for the first “group activity”.  Now, anyone who knows me well, knows I’m not very good at things like this.  I don’t know why, I’m just not.  It’s not that it was a hard activity.  We were each given a lump of homemade play-doh (that even smelled like lavender), and told that we were first to make something that represented us, and every one at the table was supposed to guess what it was.  Hmm.  Ok, I’ll play along.

I took my little ball of play-doh and smashed it flat.  I then took another piece and rolled it into a snake.  Surprise–no one could guess what I was making.  It seemed obvious to me–it was a piece of paper and a pen.  I’m a writer.  Oh well, I guess my play-doh making skills are a bit lacking.  It wasn’t one of my favorite things growing up.  Too messy.

I thought the exercise was over, but then we were directed to take our lump of play-doh and create a depiction of how God sees us.  Hmmm.  I looked around my table, at everyone deeply concentrating on their masterpiece.  I could see some making hearts, other’s making praying hands, others making crowns (for princesses), and still others making children (child of God).  Well.  Creativity is not my strong suit.  You will never read a novel from me—I just don’t have creativity in me to develop fiction.  Or make anything other than “Snakes” with play-doh.  So I rolled up my lump of play-doh and dropped it in the cup in front of me.  My seat mate asked me what it was.  I told her “I am a lump of clay that God is molding.”  Bingo.  Sunday School Answer for the Win!

After the exercise was over, some people were asked if they wanted to share what they had made.  I kept my mouth shut.  But a friend at a different table shared her creation.  She showed us a hand, and inside that hand, was a depiction of herself.  Her explanation was that she was in the middle of God’s hand.

Yeah.  So much for my lump of clay.  She was spot-on.

I thought about that last night as I went to sleep.  What in the world does that mean to be in God’s hand?  I certainly don’t “feel” as though I am in God’s hands.  I’ve seen too much–experienced too many times when I’ve wondered where his protective hand was.  Wondered too many times why He has allowed the things He has allowed in my life.  Questioned too many times His very existence.  Argued too many times against the providence of God.  If God is Sovereign, and He allows Job and Peter like stories, how does this mesh with being in His protective hands?

Still on my mind this morning, I searched for a scripture that I’ve read before, but wasn’t sure where it was.  I found it in John 10:28-29:

²⁸ I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. ²⁹ My Father, who has given them to me,^[a] is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand.

This is Jesus talking.  And it speaks directly about being within His hand.  And in His Father’s hand.

And I still don’t understand it.

But if I break the words down, and if I remind myself that this is scripture and it is truth, then even in my finite, limited and unintelligent understanding, there is comfort here.  No, there isn’t explanation about why suffering happens.  There isn’t explanation as to why two friends of mine lost their jobs this week.  Or why my best friend from high school is standing next to her mother’s hospital bed this morning while her mother struggles against a very serious illness.  There is no explanation as to why, in two weeks, instead of celebrating my son Tim’s graduation together as a complete family, we will celebrate one day, then go visit his father in prison the very next day.  It doesn’t explain why two teachers at our local middle school would think it was ok to physically abuse an autistic student.  And it doesn’t explain the horrors of sexual molestation, human trafficking, tornadoes, despair, and hopelessness and so many other evils of this world.

I wish it did.

But therein, lies the answer possibly.  Here in verses 28 and 29 lies a critical piece of the puzzle.  We find it in the very first words “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.”  This is not our home.  Not really.  We are just passing through.  And as I was reminded a couple of weeks ago, even though this life seems at times to be terribly, terribly long, it really is very, very short.  This is not our home.  When we believe, when we become followers of Christ, we are given a new home.  We are given eternal life.  And it is because of that, nothing can snatch us from the hands of Jesus.  Nothing can snatch us from the hands of God.  He is greater than all.  Greater than all the ills and trials and sufferings of this world.

Those are hard words to hear when you are in the midst of suffering.  I know.  Believe me, I know.  But even though they are hard words to hear, hard words to believe, they are truth.  We lie in the hands of God, even in the midst of the hurricanes and disasters.  Even when we are surrounded by the evil of this world.

As I’ve often shared honestly here, I struggle with doubt.  I struggle with the concept of “who I am to God”.  I worry–needlessly, I understand, but I worry nonetheless–about salvation.  If I am truly His.  If I am truly His child.  Especially when I don’t sense His presence.

I think, maybe, we need to be reminded of this especially when we don’t sense His presence.  And I think that is what I was reminded of this morning.  It’s not just that He is here, even though we may not sense Him.  It is not even that He is near, when we are experiencing suffering.  No, it is that He has us.  He has us, in His hands.

And nothing—and no one—can snatch us out of those hands.

Strange Saturday.

Just back home from watching Godzilla with my crew.  They loved it.  I had to suspend all belief in order to love it.  Oh, not that it wasn’t well done, for a monster movie.  But really?  I guess that is part of the fun of most movies, though, is suspending all belief.

Tonight my oldest son, Timothy, is going to his Senior Prom.  Now THIS—-this I wish I could suspend belief about.  I wish I could hold back time, just a little bit.  Because it’s moving at warp speed, and I wasn’t prepared for this.

It’s not like this is my first child to walk through this with.  No, two years ago, his big sister, Keli, graduated.  And two years ago we were in the midst of the insanity that comes with graduation.  Senior prom.  Graduation outfits.  Last concerts.  Last musicals.  Senior Class Day.  Digging out photos of “when they were little” for slide shows.  Making arrangements for company to arrive.  Paying some outrageous fee or cost for something new everyday (being a senior is expensive!)  So, I should be a pro at this.

But, I’m finding that for some reason, I’m not.

There is something different about Tim’s graduation that has be a bit stirred up.  I’m not sure why.  You would think I would have been more stirred up with my first child graduating.  But, no, this is getting to my soul a bit more than seeing Keli walk that stage.

I think, part of it is, that Tim is graduating two years later than Keli.  Keli graduated two years ago.  And, honestly, two years ago I think we were all still in some sort of state of shock.  Of numbness.  Of disbelief, still, at the course that our lives had taken.  At what God had allowed, through the incarceration of Jack.  Oh, it was still a very joyous time–hugely so!  I remember being so proud–so crazy proud I could barely stand it.  She had done it!  I’m still so proud of her.

But with Tim, it’s different.  Maybe every child will be different, I don’t know.  But we are in a much different place now with Tim graduating, than we were two years ago with Keli graduating.

I think, this season of prom, of “lasts”, of graduation, and of preparation to go into the Navy, is saying a whole lot more about my crew than just the fact that another child is graduating.

Instead, Tim’s prom, his graduation, his acceptance into the Navy truly has been about survival against all odds.  About resiliency.  No, maybe not resiliency.  Maybe it’s just been about grace.  Grace and hope.

You see, we all sense it.  My crew and I, we’ve talked honestly and openly about it.  There is a new aura of…how should I put it..relief?  Gratitude?  A realization that we are ok?  Yes, I think that is it.  A realization that we are ok.  Better than ok.  We are strong.  Our lives—all five of us—are infused by the only possible thing that could have sustained us thus far, and that will continue sustaining us, and that is God’s grace.  Pure and simple.

And I would have to say that I see it most vividly, or most tangibly, in Tim’s life right now.  This is my guy who has struggled all his life with just normal stuff.  Tying his shoes.  Fine and gross motor skills.  Reading social cues.  And that was before Jack’s incarceration.  And after the incarceration?  He struggled with depression.  Failing grades.  Loneliness for his dad.  A sense of lostness.

But, there is redemption.  And that’s the beautiful thing about the Gospel, is that there is redemption.  Because over the last year, I have watched a transformation in my son that is astonishing.  His depression has waned; his self-confidence has soared.  His grades, for the most part, have stabilized (I will say that graduation is still hinging upon an improvement in Physics, so there is still a bit of “holding my breath” going on).  He soared in the lead role of Shrek for the school musical.  He has found a niche of friends that love, respect and challenge him.  He nearly flunked the Navy entrance exam, only to turn around and score an incredibly high score that will open up a lot of options for him.  And, he has a date tonight.  For prom.

And, in his words, “Mom, all these things?  They could only be because of God.”  And he’s right.  God’s grace.  God’s provision.  God’s protection.

Oh, we still have plenty of hurdles to overcome.  There’s that physics thing.  And the “learning to drive” thing.  There is an upcoming prison visit the day after graduation, which, even though it is a good thing, is also a source of stress and reminder of the pain of missing your father, and knowing your father is missing your growing up.  Missing watching you become a man.

Godzilla this morning was entirely, completely, predictable.  There was that proverbial moment, when it seemed that all hope was lost.  Life, as we know it, was doomed.  But then, the day is saved.  By Godzilla, no less.  (Like I said, pretty predictable)

But what is not predictable—even though it occurs time and time and time again in our lives–is the outpouring of God’s grace.  Especially in those moments when everything is darkest.  When hope is gone.  When we can’t sense His presence.  He is still there.  Working.  Seeing.  Knowing.

And so, today you will have to forgive me.  For I’m a bit stirred up.  Stirred up at seeing my son turn into a man.  Stirred up at, once again, God’s outpouring of grace.  And–as strange as it might sound–stirred up at the reassurance God has granted me today that we are ok.  We are going to be ok.  Because He sees, knows and has not forgotten.  And is working.

 

 

Well, today has been an adventure so far.

I didn’t sleep well last night.  Something just wasn’t……right.

And then, early early this morning, sometime after I had managed to fall asleep, I was awakened by a searing, stabbing pain behind my right eye.  I basically fell out of bed, and realized that my entire cheek was wet with tears.  My eye was pouring tears.  But I was unable to open it.  “Hmmm…”, I thought to myself, “this could be interesting.”  (I’ve watched a few House episodes lately.)

I literally stumbled my way to the bathroom, taking inventory of my symptoms.  The stabbing headache, the burning eye, the swollen face (even my nose is swollen), my stuffy nose and my raw throat.

Opening up my one good eye, I took a diagnostic look in the mirror.  Yep, I was afraid of that.  Someone snatched my body during the night and replaced it with that of a monster.  Seriously.  I look beat up.  I don’t have a lot of natural beauty.  However this, whatever “this” is, has created a beast.

I’ve not been “sick” in a long time.  I don’t even know if this is “sickness” or what it is.  I managed to fish my contact out of my eye (yeah, that was fun).  And I’ve been alternating between laying in the dark and trying to work.  I know I should probably go to the doctor, and will if this is no better by tomorrow.  Right now I don’t think I could drive without smashing into something, which would probably compound this already frustrating situation.

So, while waiting for a work teleconference to begin, I decided–out of curiosity–to see what the Bible says about the eyes.  Yes, I was proof-texting.  But I literally had to laugh out loud when I read these verses in Matthew 6:22-23:

²² “The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, ²³ but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!

I laughed, because I am literally living this verse today.  My eye is very unhealthy–and so it is creating the rest of my body to be unhealthy.  I know it is very sunny out today, but everything looks incredibly dim to me–there is an aura of shadowy-ness that is surrounding my peripheral vision of even my good eye.  It’s very strange.  I’m typing this with one eye closed, and with tears pouring down my cheek.  My whole body is full of darkness.

But what exactly does Jesus mean in this verse?

I had to get a little help with this one, so I turned to John Piper, who is–as I’ve said before–way smarter than I am.  Here is what he had to say about the “bad eye”:

It refers to an eye that cannot see the beauty of grace. It cannot see the brightness of generosity. It cannot see unexpected blessing to others as a precious treasure. It is an eye that is blind to what is truly beautiful and bright and precious and God-like.

Hmm.  I think we all suffer from “bad eyes” at times.  Maybe our eyes are more often “unhealthy” than “healthy”, therefore allowing our world to be ruled by darkness.  We get so caught up in pity, in selfishness, in dark thinking (I’m referring to myself here!), that we often miss the “beauty of grace”.  The settled-ness of God’s presence and grace, even when times are ugly.  When the unknown looms large and scary.  When we allow the darkness of this world to penetrate and create darkness in our life.

I’ll have to admit, I’m struggling today to see God’s grace and light—mostly because I’m a bad, impatient patient.  I feel lousy.  I look horrendous.  And I’m very hampered by what I can and cannot do today, thus making my list of things that need to get done grow.  I’m frustrated.  Maybe not all of these tears today are from having a leaky eye.

But, I also know that beyond the very temporal conditions of every day–that includes frustrations, illnesses, disasters, inconveniences, and just the “stuff” that life is made of–lies the very real grace of God.  The grace we each need every single day to see the beauty of that grace.  The grace we need to keep moving forward.  To see the brightness of generosity.  To see what is truly beautiful.  Truly bright.  Truly Precious.  Truly God-Like.

I’ve written this post this morning sporadically–in between stumbling to the couch to lay down, covering my monster eye with a wet washcloth.  It may not even make sense, and the idea of reading back through it to see if it does hurts my head too much.  So I’ll leave it like it is.  And I’ll encourage you–and myself–to protect our eyes.  Literally and figuratively.  Eyes are important.  Seeing and knowing is important.  Are we going to let our eyes give us a perspective that is grace filled, or a perspective that is filled with darkness?

Just back from walking at Yorktown Beach.

It was hot.  But it was beautiful.

You see, I’ve been trying to get into the habit of taking an hour each morning to get back to walking.  I desperately need to do this, both for my health and my sanity.  So, I’m usually up by 5:00 am, at work by 6:30, and then, depending on when I feel I can break the chains confining me to my work computer, I try to go take a walk.

And when I walk, it’s important to me that I be able to see the sky.The sky has always been important to me.  Always.  When I can see the sky, I feel like I can breath—like I’m not being choked or suffocated.  When I can see the sky, I can much more easily sort my life out into the proper “columns” that I arrange in the sky.  (Imagine treating the sky like a giant Dry Erase Board, with columns for every aspect of life: my crew, my job, God, Jesus, the future–the list is endless.)  As I walk, I take my often chaotic thoughts and try to put them back in their proper perspectives; their proper columns.  And I pray.

I pray differently when I’m walking then when I’m studying and praying in the morning.  I can’t really explain it, and if I did, it wouldn’t make sense to anyone except God, so I won’t even try to.  But there is a definite difference in how I relate to my creator God when I am out under that big, blue sky.  I feel so little.  And that’s not a bad thing.

It’s the moments under the sky in which I am reminded who I am in Christ.  And, maybe more importantly, who I am not.

So this morning as I gazed in awe at the expansive blue sky, (without running into anyone or anything–an accomplishment for me), and as I sorted out my “columns”, I poured my desperate prayers out to my Lord and my God.  Desperate because there are a few really tough, really desperate prayers that I need for Him to see, to know, to give me some sort of measure of direction or settled-ness on.  There are hard things for a couple of my crew that are beyond my reach as a parent–hurts and needs in their life that I can’t fix.

And the sky came crashing down.

No, not literally.  But in an enveloping way.  By the time I returned to my car—tired, sweaty and out of breath because I am fat and out of shape—I felt enveloped by the blueness of the sky.  Not in some crazy, mysterious, mystical way.  Not in some overly emotional, “spiritual” way, but in a settled way.  A calm way.  An “Ok.  I am not alone.  God is real.  And He sees.  And knows.”

And I drove home in awe, once again, at the truth of Psalm 8:3-4:

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?

Who am I, that God would care for me?  To be enveloped by that thought; to be enveloped by the sky, is almost more than I can handle.

Words are so inadequate.