(other people's moms)

She felt it.

Again.

That feeling that overcame her in Chile. In Virginia. In Mississippi.

The darkness, the sadness, the despair.

Oppression.

When all that is comfortable is ripped away, there are lies that creep in.

Worthless. Unclean. Pathetic.

She slips away from the group before they head out to the impoverished neighborhood where they will be conducting vacation Bible school. She grabs her Bible and sinks to the floor. The weight on her heart is heavy. The ugly voices in her head are loud and persistent.

Her fingers shaking, she opens to the Psalms. Surely David and his cries could silence the sinister.

As everyone else assembles to caravan to the empty parking lot that will become a worship space, she grabs hold of a family friend, a friend of her mom's really, the closest thing to home.

"Please pray for me," she whispers.

This woman, another girl's mom, gladly whisks her to a private corner and proceeds to pray, prayers of freedom, truth, light, joy.

And my daughter not only learns about the blessing of service, the blessing of prayer, but the blessing of community.

That come-unity that happens when even other people's moms care about you and love on you enough for you to count on them to help you break through the darkness, trust with your fear and woundedness, leading you to the light because they know the way.

This mom is grateful for a friend standing in the gap. And I wait my turn to serve in the body of Christ.

(trespass)

This week, my brother's home was robbed.

Things were taken: computer, movies, an instrument. Their home was ripped apart, sheets off the beds, drawers ransacked. This was not the sight my sister-in-law expected arriving home after a playdate with the kids. My nephew's words: "Uh-oh, the house is messy."

Thankfully, thankfully, no one was home. Thankfully, the robbers did not hurt their golden retriever. Thankfully, only stuff was taken, and stuff can be replaced.

But security, peace, comfort? How easily is that replaced?

My brother's feelings were expressed with one word: MAD.

When someone chooses to violate your private space, take things that belong to you and trash your possessions, I think anger is a very normal emotion.

So this week, as I was participating in morning prayer from the lectionary, I was praying the Lord's model prayer. These words pierced me:

And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.


The thing is, when people sin and offend us, they are trespassing. Just like the thieves were trespassing on my brother's property, there are those walk over us and take things that are meant to be ours: dignity, respect, encouragement, love. They steal from us. And our Heavenly Father desires for us to forgive, forgive the thieves, the robbers.

On what basis?

Because, of course, forgiveness is not a natural by-product of trespass. That's just the thing; it's supernatural.

It's what God has done for us.

We, too, have robbed from God. We have stolen His glory, we have trespassed His laws, we have thrown and ransacked and abandoned His love.

And yet He forgives.

Believe me, this is hard. I am struggling with this. Yet, this is truth. And if this is truth, this is also freedom because that is what truth does; sets us free.

And so I pray to forgive those who trespass against me. I pray that God gives me the grace to be able to rise above the fear, the anger, the feeling of losing.

Because I, the thief, the trespasser of God, have been forgiven.

(blessings)

There is this Christian song I really do not like.

The first time I heard it, I nearly had to pull the car over to the side of the road because I was crying so hard. The song hit a nerve.

Actually, it pierced my heart.

The song is called "Blessings," by Laura Story. If you haven't heard it (what, are you living under a rock?), the message is best described by the last line of the chorus: "What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise?"

Whew.

The song begins by reminding us of all the things we normally pray for: protection, peace, comfort. (I'm fine with that part of the song.) But then, the song goes on to say that the blessings we ask for can come through unexpected channels, namely pain, discomfort, losing the sense of God's presence.

In my case, I prayed for a healthy baby boy. When he was born, he seemed perfect.

Nearly ten years later, he was diagnosed with Autism in the form of Asperger's Disorder, ADHD, sensory issues, math and language disabilities. And my Abba Father called me to homeschool him.

It has been five years. My son has come a long, long way. If you have read my stuff, you know that he is dear, funny and completely compassionate. He is very easy to be around and everybody loves him.

But I still struggle.

Is Asperger's a blessing?

I mean, my son is a blessing, no doubt. Even at my most frustrating homeschooling or parenting moments, I love him completely and I am very, very thankful for him.

But the neurological glitch that frustrates his ability to be social with kids his own age, the learning hurdles that keep him from excelling at his grade level, the loss of focus that prevents long-term memory, these things do not look like blessings. As a matter of fact, these things feel like curses. Or make me feel like cursing, take your pick.

So this song feels like I should be happy for all this suffering. After all, it's just a blessing in disguise. Hey, good disguise.

Then one day, I'm driving down the road, kids in tow (whoops, I do have a wonderful daughter who I've blogged about before), and realize that my son is singing along with the radio. And what was on? Yeah, THE SONG. That song that makes me mad and cry and that I do battle with because, well, because it is true.

Because if all things are from God, all things are a grace from God, that God gives good gifts, then I have to trust that He is completing a good work in my son.

The tears streaming down my face that day, as my son sang about trials and betrayals and darkness seeming to win, were tears of thankfulness that God had allowed me to bear witness to a life that knew intimately the battles of just surviving as an autistic adolescent.

And my son, my precious son, is a blessing.

(knitted)

Ahh, vacation. So wonderful, so needed.

Our family disappeared for two glorious weeks to the Smoky Mountains. We did the vacation thing, eating out, hiking, exploring, eating more, napping. Lots of togetherness.

There was one thing I had not planned for our vacation.

Learning a new skill.

My husband and daughter decided to hit the town after we arrived in Black Mountain, North Carolina. They came back with a suprise: a purple project bag with a sheep border, filled with beautiful yarn with colors of periwinkle and aubergine, needles and some other knitting ends. I was suprised.

Months ago, I had mentioned developing a new skill, maybe knitting. However, I had no idea that I would be faced with the prospect so soon.

My husband was so proud. My daughter stood behind him, charading a big happy face, signifying that I was to act very thankful for this kind gesture. "You and Kat have a lesson tomorrow!" he proclaimed.

(Isn't there some Dear Abby column advising not to give someone a new hobby or pet as a gift? Just wondering......)

So, bag in hand, my daughter and I walked from the little cabin where we were staying to the Black Mountain Yarn Shop. The great adventure had begun. Well, not like The Fellowship of the Ring or anything, but still.

Two of the nicest women I have ever met, seriously, greeted us at the door. We were ushered into a beautiful shop, filled with color and calm and something that smelled of hope, expectation. Sitting down in the comfortable sectional, Kat and I were taught how to knit. Well, first how to cast off, then knit. Then purl. If you knit, you know the talk. If not, bear with me.

We started on a scarf. I found myself a little stressed out trying to do this thing perfectly. Sure, because you should be able to learn something and do it just right, right away. Not so much. My stomach was clenched and I must have had my face completely scrunched because these women, precious women, who were teaching me, kept reassuring me that this was supposed to be relaxing. My stitches were too tight, I needed to sit back and breathe. They had obviously not met me before.

My daughter, on the other hand, took to this like she did to junk food. Very well. She started three projects while we were there and finished one of them, the hat, in a day. Yeah, it was tough. My little scarf project had to be entirely ripped out after one day because I had maimed it so badly.

But, happy to say, I recovered. The second go round was easier. Kat and I found ourselves at the yarn shop every day for the rest of our vacation. Of course, being women, we chatted with everyone there. Women, and men, we didn't even know were anxious to show off their scarves and throws, baby blankets and tatting.

Then Kat and I realized something important: the couple that owned this store were Christians. This was their ministry. They prayed for their customers, listened to them, loved on them, made them feel special and inspired. And, no kidding, I have never been around more patient teachers in my life than Donna and Kimberly.

And now that I know knitting a little, I realize that our hearts were being knitted together in that place, not just because we were sharing a hobby, but because we shared the Lord. We are sisters in Christ. And somehow, our hearts just knew that.

Now that I'm home, I'm trying to remember all of those lessons I learned. Don't take myself too seriously. Relax and breathe. And love people with enough patience that even when they mess up, they want to keep trying.

And take one stitch at a time.

[If you are intrigued, go to www.blackmountainyarnshop.com/]