On Short Floods and Deep Weeping

It was one of those delicious mornings where you hear the wind before the rain.  When the alarm clock screams, but the trees scream louder, urging you to ease back into the warmth of covers.  But not to go back to sleep.  Instead to lay there snug and listen to the howl and the fury.  The shaking of the windows and the air rifling through the fireplace.  And then, the rain.  Softly at first with a casual drip drip drip which grows to a steady beat on the hard winter earth outside the window.  Then, the downpour, deafening ears and widening sleepy eyes.  Forcing you to rise and peer out of the blinds into the darkness of a morning without sunlight.

The thing is, the rain didn’t stop.  For hours.  My fireman managed to get Addie to school that morning.  I was so relieved it was his day off and that I could wave them goodbye from inside the shelter of the warm, dry house, holding onto a cup of hot Ethiopian coffee.  I could have walked around with a warm cup of something in my hand all day with weather like that.

At about nine in the morning both of my boys were standing in the window seat of the breakfast room.  The blinds had been pulled up impatiently, one side higher than the other, and faces and hands were pressed against the glass, creating circles of fog.  A hard rain can captivate the mind of a preschooler, but a flood will get the adult’s attention.  There was a current of water sweeping down the road and continuing to rise on account of the unending pour of water from the dark sky.  It was trash day and so all color of garbage bags were floating down the middle of the street with the occasional blue recycling bin swirling in the mix.

Now there were five adults gawking out of the steamy window.  My in-laws, my husband, myself and my brother-in-law, who happened to be in town.  The waters had crossed the boundary of the street, over that thin stretch of grass between street and sidewalk, and were easing up the front lawn.  The diesel truck parked in the street had small waves lapping the bottom of the passenger door.  I wondered what it felt like to be inside of Noah’s ark, the rains pounding from above and the floods thrashing from beneath.  Knowing that no one else would survive.  Jason’s brother, Jeremy, grabbed his phone and ran to the covered front porch just in time to video two cars passing each other in the flood.  A scene that caused some excitement among us all.

We all began to wonder if it would rain all day, or if Jeremy would make it to the airport in time to catch his flight back to St. Louis.  But much more discreetly than it began, the rain ended.  Around eleven that morning I looked out of the window and the flood was gone.  A sweet neighbor lady was outside reigning in the garbage bags scattered all over the street.  And Jeremy did make it in time to the airport.

All at once I was struck with the awareness of the gracious hand of God.  I thought of that first flood upon the earth and I rejoiced in the promise of the rainbow.  A cry for humanity sounded in my heart.  There is still hope for repentance!

Little did I know how much I needed to hold onto that truth.

The next day was Jason’s shift day and so I was all alone to get the three kids bathed and into bed that night.  I had already determined we would only watch the Nature Channel until 7:30 and then have time to do baths and read stories.  But there was a documentary about elephants on.  And it ended at 8.  And I was glued.  Come on, it was elephants!

So needless to say, we were all late getting into the tub.  I turned to my daughter and told her she needed to get into the bathtub.

“Mama, I’m too tired!” Addie whined.

I knew she had a bit of narcolepsy in her, so I compromised. “You don’t have to wash your hair, just your body.”

She just sat there, those clear blue eyes looking straight ahead of her.  I asked her again and still she sat there, defiant.  I was starting to lose it inside, my blood heating and beginning to course quicker.

“Do I need to take away your tooth fairy money?” I threatened.  I was exasperated.  Had the sweet evening of snuggling and elephant-watching come to this?  I felt like I was losing control.  I haven’t spanked my seven-year old in quite some time, but I reached for the spoon that night.  That did get her attention and she finally slinked off to the bathroom.  I held the wooden spoon as shame and despair began to creep over me.

“O God,” I prayed, “redeem this night!”

Later, as I was getting the boys in the tub, I heard her crying in the hall.  I ran out to see what was wrong and I saw that she had fallen down, walking from the bathroom to her room.  She was dripping wet, wrapped in a red towel and must have slipped on the tile.  I comforted her as much as I could and helped my daughter to stand.  She seemed to be alright and so she went on to her bedroom.

I went back in to care for the boys, but I could still hear her crying from her bedroom.  No, rather it was weeping that I heard.  Perhaps she really was hurt.  I ran again and reached her room to see her curled in a ball on her bed, her small frame shaking with the sobs.

“Adeline, baby, what’s wrong?”  I rushed to her and scooped her up.  “Are you hurt?” I tried to ascertain any broken bones.  She shook her wet head.  I looked at her, puzzled.  “Look at me, Addie,” I said gently.  But she would not look me in the eyes.  “Please tell me what the matter is,” I prodded.

She pushed up from me a bit and freed her right hand.  Her fingers began to move.  She was finger signing!  Jason had taught her the alphabet in sign language a few weeks before.  Unfortunately, she was better at it than I was.  “Whoa there!  Start over, Addie, I didn’t catch that!”  I said, realizing that I had better pay attention.  She signed, slower this time and I repeated each letter as she formed it.  “I V B E E N S I N F U L.”  I put it together.  “I’ve been sinful?”  I asked her.  My daughter shook her head as if I hadn’t rightly understood her.  I repeated the letters again, “I V B E E N S I N F U L,” but then she added “A L O T !”  This threw her into a fresh wave of anguish.

And I cradled my daughter, my Addie Rose, as her heart broke over her sin.  She wept and wept and I was awestruck.  Dare I believe that God was redeeming the ugly of the night?

“Addie, turn from your sin and run to Jesus.  His grace is enough for you.”  I smiled at her and said, “His grace is enough for me.”

And I rejoiced that there was still hope for repentance.

Free to Dream

We are free to dream.

I often find myself holding back, not wanting to fully engage in a dream for fear that I will be shattered if it is taken away from me.

But dreaming is good.  Important even.  For what dreaming brings about is excitement and action and productivity.  And to dream fully, with open hands and a light heart and busy mind, is a good and necessary undertaking.  For we begin to think noble thoughts about who we are as God has uniquely gifted and called us.  And with eyes focused on Christ and His kingdom there are no limits.

My problem is not that I dream prematurely.  My problem is that I do not dream big enough.  Full enough.  Or free enough.

So dream!  Here is your invitation.  Take it and fly!


French Bread

I was shopping today at HEB.  That is actually an understatement.  I was shopping for two weeks worth of groceries for two households that happen to be living in the same house.  My in-laws house.  I love the two week shopping. I mean the actual shopping trip is a little over three hours and you need a good night’s rest the night before and definitely need to leave the kids at home.  At least my kids-  But I do enjoy the two weeks worth of meal planning and list making and shopping because I don’t have to do it every week anymore and it also saves time and money.

One of the things my mother-in-law wrote down on the menu was french bread.  I walked over to the bakery section where the fresh bread island displayed the different varieties of baked heaven.  The foiled packages contained the garlic bread, all neatly nestled on the bottom row on the one side.  There were rolls, wheat and white.  I walked to the other side.  Bolillos and hot dog buns with sesame seeds.  No french bread.  Ciabatta.  O the Ciabatta.  Maybe that would suffice?  I called her to make sure.

“No, I want french bread,” my mother-in-law said.  She is not a woman who settles for second best.  I knew this.  “See if they have some up at the counter, ” she suggested.  “Otherwise I’ll just pick some up at a later time.”

That sounded good to me so after I said goodbye, I asked the lady who was decorating some bright blue cupcakes if they had any french bread that hadn’t been brought out yet.  They did!  They were just coming out of the oven.  Another lady was wheeling them out on a cart and handed one to my out-stretched hand from over the counter.

The paper package was warm, almost hot.  The thick loaf was crusty and fresh and the smell beckoned me.  I looked around me to make sure no shopper was watching.  I closed my eyes, bringing the baked bread to my nose and inhaled deeply, drinking in the richness of the scent.  How do you even describe what a wonderful loaf of fresh bread smells like?  To someone with celiac disease it smells like heaven.

Yes.  I have been gluten free for two and a half years now.  Diagnosed with celiac disease right after Thadd’s birth.  So no wheat, barley or rye.  And that includes a host of things as wheat is in countless packaged food items.  As overwhelming and life-changing as this has been for me, it has been relatively easy to adjust to the new diet as there are so many products that are gluten free as well as many resources out there to help the poor celiac.  Many restaurants have made adaptations too.  (It’s just expensive!)  All this to say, I am not suffering under the burden of this new gluten free regime.  I still enjoy eating.  And eating well.  But the one thing that gets me every time is the french bread.  The substitutions are nothing like the real thing.

I stood there in that grocery store, people milling all about me, frozen.  My hands still embracing the forbidden package and my nose still welcoming the tantalizing aroma.  I was overcome with harsh reality at that moment.  That bread could never be mine.  Tears literally came to my eyes!

I remember having a conversation with my neighbor friend, Meg one day.  We were sitting in her dining room and she had lavished upon me homemade relish from fresh cucumbers and tomatoes from her garden.  She had set out the most delicate china and had poured the tea into adorable tea cups.  Big band music played on the radio.  I was visiting her because she had recently undergone foot surgery (again) and had come to keep company, but instead she treated me like royalty.

You could see the worn years of hardship on her face.  Her body was stiff with rheumatoid arthritis and battle wounds of countless surgeries.  I never saw her without makeup on or with her short spiral hair out of place.  She had once been an alcoholic, and though she had been clean for years, continued to go to AA once a week.  She knew her weakness.  But she knew the power of the cross.  She was an inspiration to me.

We were having one of those conversations about heaven, the kind that transcends age barriers and life experience and it finally occurred to me that Meg and I had a lot in common.

“You know, Meg,”  I had said suddenly, cradling the cup of tea with both of my hands.  “I think we both have a lot more in common than we think we do.”

“What’s that sweetie?” she asked me.  She winced a bit and closed her done up eyes.  She shot them open and smiled reassuringly as I had stood up to help her in vain with whatever pain she had.  “Sit back down, darling.  I’m fine!  This ole girl has been through tougher times than these!”

I remember sitting down and grinning at her.  She could be persuasive, that was for sure.  She had looked at me in anticipation.  So I said, “I think both of us long for the Eucharist we will enjoy with our Lord more than most other people do.”

She frowned for a few seconds and then broke out into a wide smile and that rippling laugh of hers as she realized that in heaven my body would finally be healed and I could partake of the bread.  And she would be free to enjoy the new wine.  We laughed together and clapped our hands, the ex-alcoholic and the celiac joyfully longing for the consummation of all things.

I finally put the bread back into my shopping cart and continued my monumental ordeal.  And all through the store I smelled the bread.  I smiled to myself and whispered softly, “One day.  One day!”

Whispers of Hope

“He has come for us – this Jesus, He’s the hope for all mankind.”

We light the first advent candle.  The flame flickers, catching the trimmed wick of the slender candle.  A small glow, barely visible in the afternoon light, yet enough to brighten a small corner of the dining room.

“What does this first candle stand for?” Jason coaxes our children.

“Hope!” exclaims Adeline, our oldest.  Jeremiah and Thaddaeus shout out right after in competition, “Hope!”  They are all full of joy at the presentation of their knowledge.  And they cannot help but be full of hope itself.  Their expectant eyes, the way they dance in anticipation of just about anything gives away the stores of hope heaped up in their hearts.

“Hope,” repeats Jason, slowly exhaling.  He catches my eye and I see the longing.  I understand the desperation for this one word.  How I ache to accept life as my children do.

In our recent life journey we have been buffeted by the winds of change.  Following the birth of our third child (Thaddaeus Joseph) two and a half years ago, Jason decided to step out of the construction field.  We were in a state of honest self-evaluation and openness to the Lord’s leading in our lives.  During this season of desert wandering the Lord provided a job for Jason at a company called I 360 as a Life Development Coach for people with drug and alcohol addictions.  We knew it was a temporary job, but we just didn’t know what was to come after it.  So we waited.  And we prayed.  And we dreamed.  And we experienced deep pain and bewilderment when the dreams we pursued were met with dead ends and the voice we were waiting to hear was silent.  Hope would be strong one day, but would be almost nonexistent the next, fading along with our financial resources.

A year and a half ago, right after lent of 2010, Jason told me that he was considering becoming a firefighter.  Being the supporting wife that I am, I laughed aloud. “What?” I said, incredulous. “That doesn’t make any sense!”  I really thought God was leading us somewhere else.  But God was leading my then, 36 year-old, husband into the new and strange world of the fire service.  It didn’t take me too long to get on board, and soon the posture of our lives changed from the slow pace of waiting to the rapid pulse of activity.  We had direction and so all this restless energy was now focused on preparation for the firefighting arena.  This included fire academy and EMT basic training.  Jason began his online studies in May of 2010 and finished in April of 2011.

And that year was probably the hardest of our lives.  There is not room enough to describe it all, but here is a snapshot of it.  Spiritual oppression, physical burnout, slow apathy, deep depression, recurring sickness, flailing faith, financial hardship…  Sorry.  I’m not painting a very pretty picture here.  This is just where we were.  And there was no guarantee that Jason would get a job as a firefighter.  He was testing wherever he could (in Dallas and Houston) and that process was a rollercoaster of hope we couldn’t avoid.  We were desperate.  And we came to the place where we were putting our hope in a job instead of in the Lord.  And that is never a good place to live.

But change came.  Slowly.  Ever so slowly, flickering hope began to seep back into our veins.  I cannot explain exactly the way the Holy Spirit moves for He blows where and when He desires.  But the beginning of May we experienced a fresh outpouring of the Spirit.  Our faithful God brought us back to trust in Him again.  He brought us to the place where He was enough.  And this was before Jason was offered a position with the Woodlands Fire Department.  They called him on June 23rd and he did not hesitate to accept the job.  We were moving to Houston!

In a hurricane of a month’s time we had packed up our house and made the necessary updates the house needed.  We showed up at Jason’s parents’ doorstep a few days before work officially began at the Woodlands.  (We apologized in advance for what our boys would destroy during the time that they graciously opened their home to this homeless family of five.)  And here we are.  Grateful.  Humbled.  Healing.

Our God has been so faithful to us through these years.  We were brought lower than ever before by financial hardship, but He always provided for us.  We were beset by the continuous generosity of others.  Friends stocking our cupboards, anonymous Walmart cards, a brand new bed, our car’s registration paid for, random checks, lemonade stands to raise money for us.  And I could go on and on.  It was such a time of humbling.  A time of learning the discipline of receiving.  And we are still in that place.

Jason is experiencing life as a rookie and was just accepted into the paramedic program at the Woodlands, which is a year-long course.  We are currently living with his parents in Richmond, TX, just over an hour’s drive from the Woodlands.  Obviously, we are still in transition, but have come upon a season of peaceful waiting.  Adeline is in first grade and the boys are home with me.  It is a simple life really.  A time to breathe.  A time to enjoy the closeness of family.  A time to remember what the Lord has done for us throughout these years.

Dear friends and family, we thank you for bearing our burdens during this season.  For your intercession on our behalf and your joyful generosity to us.  We love you and rejoice in hope of the glorious appearing of our Lord and Savior.

Jason, Kristin, Adeline, Jeremiah and Thaddaeus