Perspective

 



 (Originally written September 1, 2009)

I work for an amazing network of parents raising kids with extra needs.

 

We support new Mom's and families who are experiencing a high-risk pregnancy, have a baby in the intensive-care unit, or whose child has just received a diagnosis of some type of health issue, disability or delay.

 It is the perfect way to "give back" a tiny bit of the support others gave me when my son was born very early.

It seems amazing, though, how everything is interlinked and interwoven in my journey.

I recently visited a young Mom on bed rest in the same hospital that my son was born and hospitalized four years ago.
It was surreal to walk those long halls and enter the familiar room where my son and I literally fought for our lives.

I remember hearing women giving birth at all hours, while I lay hooked up to monitors and magnesium sulfate praying to live; listening to them push and cry out in joy when they held their babies.

So when I entered the room today and saw her laying there, my heart broke.
Showing her the birth picture of my one pound son and watching her face react in surprise and HOPE that he made it (and so can her baby);
it was empowering and healing.

The strange part of this experience was the exchange I had at the "check-in" desk for visitors, before I could go back to visit her.

Waiting in line, I over-heard an adoption agency "mentor" asking questions regarding the "protocol" for when she brings her "mentee" in for a scheduled c-section.  She was concerned about where the "adoptive parents" would "wait" to see the baby.

As the older lady asked these questions, I noticed the pregnant Mom playing quietly with her other young child, who was with them. The little girl was so sweet and cute, and as she walked by we made eye contact.
I looked into her innocent eyes and wondered how she will someday deal with the reality that her Mother "placed" her sibling for adoption. 
 When will this young mother REALIZE the huge life-altering decision she is making? And why aren't there more resources available for mother's like this to receive support, without encouraging her to surrender her baby?

I happened to KNOW this "mentor." 
 When she turned around, I re-introduced myself and we talked.
She is the wife of a former state senator, whose district I happened to live in a few years ago, and we also attend the same church.
I went to one of their open houses and enjoyed talking to her about adoption and the IMPORTANCE of adoptee access issues.
She shared with me her passion for "orphans" and how she someday would like to be involved in helping more than she was able to while her husband was busy with politics.

I guess her "someday" has come.
We are both at a place in our lives with roles of "helping" but with completely different perspectives.

 

As an adult adopted person, my idea of "helping" a young mother does not involve "encouraging" her to be a hero by "gifting" her own flesh and blood, simply because others are married, or have more money, or badly want a child.

The gravity of separation between a mother and her child ~ whether to miscarriage, prematurity, or adoption ~ is profound.

Adoption should never be "encouraged" to provide a child for another,
even if they have waited and hoped for a long time.

Support (in my mind) would involve equipping young mothers with the knowledge and tools to embrace the miracle of Motherhood.

I WISH there were more resources available to pregnant mothers, that did not involve the "option" of surrendering their babies.
When this "option" is included in pregnancy "counseling" it seems to be ripe with conflict of interest and serves only to plants seeds of doubt and low self-esteem in an already vulnerable mother and baby. 

Stranger still is this all occurred not only in the hospital my son was born, but also the same hospital I was born and lost my Mother in, in 1968.
My records (that I have had to fight for) mention "prolonged crying" in the new-born nursery the day I was discharged to the attorney.

Maybe I already knew.

The day I gave up hope of being "me" with the Mother and family God originally ordained me to be. The day that would start the journey of life-long search & necessary healing.

As I experienced this day, I found myself empathizing with the feelings of so many ~ the way my first Mother must have felt (like the pregnant mother awaiting the birth of the child she would turn right around and relinquish to others); the loss her small daughter will feel someday as she realizes the minutes, days, and years she lived without her sibling; and the fear I saw in the eyes of the other expectant Mother, 26 weeks pregnant and praying for one more day, one more month of carrying her precious infant close.
Having to surrender her child to metal beds, loud noises, sharp sticks, and bright lights in the NICU ~ so many emotions.

 

All interwoven and all involving the most primal, important, and profound relationship of all ~ Mother & baby.

My son (born 3 months early) STILL doesn't have a strong sense of self.
His use of pronouns ("I", "me", "you") are all mixed up, especially when it comes to conversations involving me (his Mom) and him.
We are ONE (still) in his little mind, because his development is so delayed from being born premature and being separated from me so early.
Not to mention his anxiety, attachment, and trust issues.
It breaks my heart and reinforces the profound importance of the early mother/baby bond that is lost with premature birth AND adoption.

No matter how many "professionals" (making their living from this 'business') want to gloss it over or completely deny it ~ it affects every aspect of an adoptee's development and life-long perspective. EVERY ASPECT.

If organization skills are really a picture of our inner-life, no wonder it has been so hard to live by the rule I grew up with ~ "everything in it's place". 
 Some things may never find "it's place." 

 This adopted woman's life was forever blessed,
the day I became a Mother. 

 Yet I profoundly felt my son's pain of being separated from me. 

 My hormones screamed for him while the primal inner child in me wept; 
 knowing his cries were for his Mother, and yet not able to hold him in the place we both longed for. 

 My womb. My arms. 

 I shudder with memories of walking away from that incubator each evening feeling intensely broken.

It's taken me 2 hours to write this. 
 I've been blessed to hear a little voice yelling "Mommy" every few minutes ~ my son wakes from napping and realizes I'm not beside him.

Thank you, God, for that voice. Thank you...

Oh, The Places You'll Go

My first introduction to "adoption poetry" was a framed version of an old classic,
"Chosen Child".

It hung on my Mother's bedroom wall right next to an ever-growing collage of my school pictures as I grew up. I never understood why I hated that wall. It felt as if when I entered that room I needed to avoid eye-contact with that wall, those pictures, and that poem. But I couldn't understand why.

I thought I hated myself and my pictures, but now I realize it was the poem.

The poem had alot of contradictory statements which is confusing to an adopted child.

The first stance says "I had to tell you, Dearest Heart, that you are not my own" ~ it goes on to explain how much she wanted and desired a baby and how we were brought together through adoption ~ then the last stance of the poem states that I am "her's, and her's alone".

 

Now how can that be?

How can I not be her own, and also hers alone? It didn't make sense.

Yet that is just one example of many "double-messages" adoptees grapple with in a life-time.

Think about it ~ according to the adoption industry, in order to increase the number of available children for adoption (the commodity) we (adoptees) get mixed-messages. 
We are "unwanted", "crisis'", "abandoned", "orphans"; yet "chosen", "special", "lucky", "gifts".

Our mother's are told they are "incapable", yet "heroic".

Our very identities are "amended" in order to fulfill a role, and we're expected to cut ourselves off completely (the message of "sealed records") from our very identity, heritage, and family-line.  

Adoption is a legal contract that tries to do the impossible ~ "as if born to" can never replace the reality of profound loss for an adoptee, yet we are asked to live a life-time of splitting ourselves off from our very core.

 We become masters at people-pleasing and compliance because we receive the message that adoption has made us "worthy".
 It cleansed us of being a "bastard" or "orphan" (even if only on paper).

Our original identities are "sealed", and therefore, somehow defines us in shame.

So we work extremely hard to earn our place in a world where everything about us had to be "amended" in order to be accepted.

 

 What a heavy burden for any child, any human.

As a young child I was the master home-made card maker. I would make elaborate cards for my Mom proclaiming she was the BEST Mother in the world.

I think it was my way of trying desperately to ease the insecurity in both of us.

With the words of "The Chosen Child" poem always looming, I can now understand that insecurity.

Years after my reunion with my first family, I went to an art class which turned out to be a life-defining experience. We were asked to read the Dr. Seuss book, "Oh, the Places You'll Go" and then compose a poem, and create a companion pastel drawing.

I had never taken art before and felt like because I had no talent that my pastel would be embarrassing at the least, but decided to try...

A few hours later, feeling like time was literally standing still, I brought myself back into the real world a different person.

 

A person who had finally given myself permission to grieve and shed tears over my adoption.

 

I had always heard that art was good for the soul; that it somehow unlocked the right (more feeling) side of the brain, and by the time I pulled myself away from this project I was a true believer.

I vowed to take more art classes, set up a studio, and dive into this new found passion.

Several years later here I sit without going one step further into that dream...

I'm just thankful for the amazing experience of that class, that teacher, and the healing that flowed through it.

"Oh, The Places You'll Go"
by Baby Girl Lowe living life as Samantha Franklin

You'll wake up one day and find yourself floating
on rivers of Golden Tears....
In deep scars of black and purple, too
Flowing from your hidden view
Amidst eyes of blue.

Encircling your heart is crimson red...
Blood of the fathers you never knew.
Enshrined....
Finally you'll find the real 'you'

Deeply hidden in the sea of blue
Your only chance now is to ride the hues
Grief unlocks the colors of life....
You'll find your "purple" deep inside...
after the ride.

So close your eyes, and feel the depth
You'll find you're not alone...
Surrounded by the throng, the unseen tears...
Hold on.

We must visit the eyes of our forefathers...
The pain of our unknown
Connect with the blood with whom we found life
Love through the tears of our own.

Thank you, Mom

     Last Thanksgiving morning I held my Mom's hand as she journeyed to Heaven. 

It still doesn't seem real. 

(Originally published on 6/7/09)

     Mom has always been there for me.   

I marvel at her strength, inspiration, and tenacity, even through many medical problems in her older age.

She worked long, faithful hours for over 20 years at the same company.  She put me through college as a single parent. 


She has been my biggest encourager, and helped me believe in myself...because she believed in me. 
 

 A couple of years ago in December, she fell and hit her head on a step, and was in ICU for a week.  Laying in the hospital bed, barely able to speak, she motioned for me to bend down close...and asked me to go to the store for her and buy my son a Lego wagon she had seen advertised. 
She wanted him to have it for Christmas.  He still loves that wagon he got from his Grandma. 

When Mom went through a stem-cell transplant in 1998, she always kept a smile, even through weeks in the hospital.  I look back and cherish that time I spent with her. 

At the exact moment the stem-cells (blood transfusion) began, a song came on the radio in her room entitled, "There Is Power In The Blood". 

We all took notice and thanked God ~ she was healed from that day forward. 

My Mom is an eternal optimist and loved by many.

She gets her energy from helping others. 
It has been frustrating for me to see her neglect herself and her rest, health, and emotional healing, to be an eternal "caretaker" of others. 
She is depressed right now because she can't go to the senior center and help the "old people". 

 

She has been in the hospital for several weeks and although we finally found a doctor who is running the necessary tests that should have been done immediately, my Mom is tired.

And I am grieving to see her like this.

I regret so much. 
The times (even just a few months ago) when she would knock on my front door unexpectedly, and I would have a twinge of feeling "put out" at an inconvenient time. 
Now I cry for her to be able to do that again.

We have had to forgive each other a lot because we are very different in personality.
My Mom's out-going personality smothered me as a shy, quiet, insecure little girl.
She talked about me incessantly, causing me to retreat farther into my shell.

 

Unfortunately, neither of us got the "memo" about the needs of adopted children.

 We struggled. But we never, ever stopped loving.
 

Thank you, Mom, for letting me find myself.   

Mom is having yet more tests run tomorrow. Please pray for her strength to get through this, for the doctors to find out what is wrong and be able to help her regain her strength. She is a cancer-survivor, and they have ruled out all re-occurance. They found severe ulcers (completely missed by doctors just a month ago), which are finally being treated.
She is very discouraged and tired after a long ordeal.
My grandmother did this in her "older" age and then regained her health and lived to be 92 years old.

 

    Lord, please bless my Mom. Fill her with peace and healing and strength.
Give her your comfort right now and protect her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

This was originally written in 2009. 

My Mom did recover and went on to marry at 80 years of age. 
She had two beautiful years with her husband.  They both passed away 9 months apart last year.
Our last conversation, when we both knew her time was short, taught me much.

We realized...
 None of our human foibles or misunderstandings mattered any more. 
Only the love we had always kept in our hearts. 
The important thing was that we were there. 
We never gave up on each other.

I reminded her, "He will surely make everything right".

The bitter tears after an unfair divorce and the loneliness and fatigue she endured as a single parent.  The painful disease that tried to take her life.  Even the hurts her heart still carried from childhood.  None of it mattered anymore;  she wanted to see her Savior face to face. 
The One who loved her and would never forsake.
The faithful One who had been her Father, Husband, Provider and Protector. And mine as well.
       
When the nurses came in to ask if she knew she was in the hospital, she would say,

"I'm with Sam"  

And my tears would flow. 
I realized we had given each other a beautiful gift. 
His presence had healed our hearts to the point that we could be truly present with each other. 

We spent our last days together doing what we loved.
In the hospital gift shop, we would peruse the lovely trinkets and comment on their meaning or significance.  They would remind us of a story and we would reminisce.

Our eyes were drawn to a beautiful plaque that now graces my living room wall.  

"Be Still...and Know that I am God"

  

When she felt well enough, I would bundle her up in a soft blanket
and we would stroll outside among the bright yellow autumn leaves.  They were so delicate.  
I realized how fragile life was during those times. 
And what a beautiful gift our presence is for each other. 
I never wanted to regret another thing. 
But enjoy and embrace every moment with my family and friends, from that point forward.

What I didn't realize was how deeply the pain of grief would affect me. 
With every loss we encounter, it triggers deeper losses that seem unbearable.  
We close off our hearts and put up walls we think are protective,
when really, they are suffocating us.
We spend our time distracted and numb, because it hurts too much to feel.
We feel broken. 

A grieving heart is at risk of becoming bitter. 
 
Every day surrounded by families who all look alike and support one other...
enjoying a "normal" life without the mess of reunion, radiology, and obituaries. 
Or overwhelming memories of such.

    This year has been hard for me. 
A year of isolation and sadness.  
        
I've felt orphaned.

My Pastor recently spoke of the story of Jacob and Esau.
When Esau's birthright was stolen by his brother, Jacob, he was hurt and angry.
Yet through the years, instead of allowing the pain to close his heart towards God, he trusted.
And God Himself took care of him.
Later, when he and Jacob were reunited, they ran toward each other and embraced.
They felt as if they were seeing God's very face. 
 
They blessed each other.

Lord, please help me trust You to be my Father, and take care of me.
Help me forgive everyone that has hurt me, and bless them.
Give others the grace to forgive me, as well.
Turn our hearts to You and fill us with peace, love and joy again.

Help me live life with no regrets.
Thank you, Mom, for teaching me this. 
I miss you so much.
I love you. 

Deal?

“What is the price of five sparrows...
two copper coins?

Yet God does not forget a single one. 
 So don’t be afraid...the very hairs on your head are all numbered.
 
You are more valuable to God
than a whole flock of sparrows."
Luke 12:6-7

(originally written in '09) 

Rushing out the door this morning to get my son to school, my hands were full.
It's been a rough few weeks and his separation anxiety looms.

Just like every other morning, I tucked my son into his car seat,
 and turned to lock the front door
(our driveway goes right up to the door,
where he never loses sight of me)...

when panic set in 

Terrified that he would be left alone,
my son grabbed on to me for dear life; 
 completely overcome by fear. 

 

Realizing he couldn't hear a word I was saying,
I finally just settled into his grasp, 
letting him know I wasn't going anywhere.
He calmed down enough to finally get his words out,
and this is what he screamed...

 

"Don't go...DEAL?"

 

"Deal!", I passionately reassured him.
With this, his little body finally relaxed.

 

Falling into the front seat of the car completely exhausted and in tears
...it hit me.

What a beautiful gift.

My precious son is teaching me...
to take the time
even when I feel rushed,
to really listen 
to my own needs and those I love...
no matter how long it takes.
 

Suddenly I felt a wave of comfort...
a flood of peace which had eluded me for weeks.

God's compassion towards us is even greater
than the overwhelming love we feel for our own children.   

When my son struggles, the last thing I feel is anger;
knowing he needs most my gentleness, closeness and mercy.
But how often I'm afraid that God is mad at me
for not being able to fully trust or surrender...
even when I truly want to. 

It breaks our hearts when we see our children suffer...
How much more must our Creator desire to deliver us.  

My Father gently reassures that even when I'm panicked
and not functioning at the level I wish I could...

when I'm fearful or living in numbness,
that He loves me and understands my needs.     

 

Lord, thank you for your mercy and love.
For teaching me so gently.
 

Thank you for holding me
 when I need your calming reassurance..."Deal?"

The Living Doll: Dedicated to Veronica

© Photographer: Vladvitek | Agency: Dreamstime.com

 

Original article posted on 9/24/13

Reposting today in honor of Veronica Brown's Birthday. 

We love you, sweet Veronica

 

"When I dig up your dry bones from exile, I'll breathe My life into you and you'll live. Then I'll lead you straight back to your land and you'll realize that I am your God." Ezekial 37:12-14

I have struggled with muscle & joint pain, and think that it may be related to the emotional journey I have taken as an adoptee. 

I was laying in bed this morning, still in shock, that an entire nation watched last night as an innocent four year old girl was taken unnecessarily from her family. 

 

Any society that legally sanctions an unregulated profit-driven adoption industry over a child's best interest is sick and inhumane. 

Then the thought came to me.  These pains feel like the pains of transformation.

I've grown up a plastic doll, frozen in my adopted role.  

Expected emotions and expressions ~ a painted on smile. 
Oh, the places we go.

My realness was surrendered as a baby...crying, pleading. 
The cries carried with them the life I had shared with she who gave me life  ~ flying into the universe in search. 
I slowly morphed into the doll I became. The one who laughed and talked and danced her little heart out.

Until, one day, from the shadows, they returned.
  Like they knew.
As the doll aged it had begun to crack and fray;
bruised and torn by life in a real world, existing as only a doll.
Dutifully fulfilling the dreams of the girl who owned her...

Yes, the tears this worn plastic doll had once shed; the screams that proved her real in time past, but had been denied...they found their way back;
And she was taken for surprise.
Almost as if she was living another life, not hers.
She remembered and she searched.

Eventually, she found her truth, 

still merely a plastic doll.

Unbearable grief welled up and broke through the frozeness, the facade.
It felt as if her brittle arms and legs, feet and hands, head and heart might literally snap with the newfound awareness of blood coursing through her veins.

This old, hard plastic I am made of (resilient, strong, inflexible, controlled)
must adjust to being real ~ for the first time.

I am real?

The painted on smile disappears. 
I have only survived in this one state ~ my adopted self. 
Certificate of authenticity and all.  
How does a "living" doll break out of this shell I have been in my whole life?

It is so painful to stretch the joints and flesh that have stayed in one position, frozen in the mold that was used to define me,
afraid to even imagine who I really am. 
I walk stiffly...half-doll, half-person in the land of the living. 
Discovering my own humanity. 

The truth is, we aren't dolls, but we might as well be.
That is how adoption works.

I pray God's protection and grace over you, Veronica. 
That He will help you someday learn to be "real" in the midst of pain. 

Lord, please heal us.   

Is God My Adoptive Father?

© Photographer: Billysiew | Agency: Dreamstime.com

Many Christians assert that we are "adopted" by God as His children.
 

They don't realize that comparing the original language and translation of the scriptures to our westernized concept of "adoption" can actually alienate an adoptee's heart from fully trusting in their Creator God. 

"For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God. For you have not received the spirit of slavery again to fear; but you have received the Spirit of "sonship" (some translations say "adoption") , whereby we cry, Abba (Daddy), Father. The Spirit of God Himself bears witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God."

Romans 8:14-16

 

Let us take the Greek word sometimes translated "adoption" apart.
It is huiothesia.

 

The first half is huios, the common noun for an adult son.

The latter half is thesia, a setting of a person or a thing in its place. 

(John 1:12; John 1:13;  Gal 4:1-5;  Romans 8:1-39)   

 

 This speaks of our inheritance as son's and daughter's of God's grace and mercy through salvation.

 

Titus 3:7

...so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life.

I once heard a Pastor by the name of Dick Bernal (from San Francisco) preach a sermon about this very subject. He wisely pointed out that the original Greek language that was translated "adopted" in these scriptures could more accurately be translated as "reunited". It describes the beautiful picture of a "reunion" between God and His Creation ("sperma", "offspring"), or children.

I John says that we are BORN of God ('sperma').
If we are BORN of God, we do not NEED to be adopted by Him ~ we are "reunited" with Him in salvation, our Creator, Our Savior, Our Perfect Father.

 

As an adult adoptee, I take GREAT comfort in the fact that I don't need to be adopted by God in the same sense I was "adopted" in the natural. 

 In biblical culture, mainly adults were "adopted", but names were not changed.  Lineages remained intact.

God is not my adoptive Father.  He is simply my Father.    

 

He cries with me in my grief of losing my first family.  He understands my pain. 

 It certainly wasn't His perfect plan. 

Joseph (who was sold), when reunited with his family, allowed God to heal him, and "what the enemy meant for evil, God turned for good."

In fact, the Bible says that our Savior came to "ransom" or "redeem" us, which means He "bought us back" from the enemy. Ransom is only necessary when a person has been kidnapped. To be "bought back" implies that we were originally God's creation, His offspring, and He paid a dear price (His own life), a "ransom" to get us back to Him, our Home, our identity, our intended place.

He bore the pain of my broken heart.

  Out of emptiness he came, like a tender shoot from rock-hard ground.
He was despised and forsaken,
    a man of suffering and grief.
    He was despised, forsaken, and we took no notice of him.
 Yet it was our suffering he carried,
    our pain and distress.
He endured the breaking that made us whole.
    The injuries he suffered became our healing.
We all have wandered off, like sheep without a Shepard,
    scattered by our aimless striving and endless pursuits; He took upon Himself the sins of us all.   

Isaiah 53:1-12
 

 He even offers me another "birth" experience.

 

“Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again. 

 “How can someone be born when they are old?” Nicodemus asked.

 “Surely they cannot enter a second time into their mother’s womb to be born!”

Jesus answered, “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit.  Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the

Spirit gives birth to spirit.  

When I believed on Him as my Savior, I was in a very real sense, born again.  This time, born of perfect Love.  In perfect truth. 

Even when I struggle with trust issues or fall out of fellowship with Him, I am His child.  His heart wants to be near mine. 

 The Prodigal Son in scripture was not the 'adopted' son of his father, he was the ("sperma"), full-blooded son of his Father, who waited with open arms for him to find his way back home.

 

I resonate with this beautiful analogy so much, because I can
 "BE" who I was created to be. 

I am fully born, loved, and reunited with Him, who I originated from.
 

No "amending" of my personhood is necessary. 
I don't have to hide.  No secrets.    

 

That is Heaven to this adoptee.

The first time I heard the song, "Born Again" by Third Day, I cried. 
It felt like the song of this adoptee.  An adoptee who had hidden my entire life, because I felt I had to deny my true identity and feelings. 
God knew my name all along.  Even before I did. 

He wasn't the author of my relinquishment or amended birth certificate. 
He was my Shepard.  My healer.  My Savior.  My Father. 
I didn't need to hide from Him or distrust Him any longer.

See this post I wrote about how God helped me open my heart to the tremendous grief I had buried, so He could begin healing me ~

"Losing Mother".   

I also wanted to share an amazing new blog written by a Pastor/Adoptee friend, Deanna Shrodes ~ Adoptee Restoration.

God's Eye

 

 

On a recent school day I pulled a beautiful piece of Gods-Eye artwork 
out of my son's backpack.
Instantly recoiling, he begged me to put it back. 

 

Surprised, I asked "Why?", he was so upset. 
To me, it was the most perfect thing I'd laid eyes on...
simply because his own sweet hands had created it.
This was his reply.   

"Mom, it is all wrong.  I tried. 
But I just couldn't get it right. 
It is junk!
  Throw it away.

 Even though the teacher kept showing me over and over,
I couldn't do it, so she finally just said,
 
'oh well'  

"It doesn't look like the other kid's, he exclaimed .
It is supposed to look like an eye...not that!" 

 

...and although he couldn't quite articulate it,
"shame" dulled his innocent eyes. 

My heart broke...right along side his. 

 

Holding back tears, I took Andrew into my arms.

 

"Honey, I think it is perfect". 

The way you made it is exactly the way it is supposed to be. 

God didn't want yours to look like everyone else's
because He wanted your art to reflect your story...
and how He took care of you.

 

What did He do for you when you were a tiny baby in the hospital? 
"He healed me". 

 

And what else? 
"He held me" 
Exactly. 

 

My husband and I prayed that God Himself would hold our son close
those long months in the NICU, when we couldn't physically hold him. 
And I believe He did.

"I will offer you peace like a river,
and as a mother comforts her child,
so I will comfort you".   

My son may have felt abandoned in that dark incubator.
 But he was never alone.  

I was always near, experiencing every painful aspect
of his journey right along with him,
 yet he may not have felt my presence as I longed for him to.     
The tubes I was afraid might strangle my son, became instruments of life for him. 
The needles that scarred his wafer-thin skin, brought healing.
That very dark place is where God saved his life.  

 

When we finally came home, after four long months,
all I could do was hold my beautiful child for hours on end. 
And cry. 
I prayed that God would turn it for good. 
That Andrew would somehow feel God's love
so deeply that his heart could heal.    

 

"That is what your art is", I continued..
"It's a picture of Jesus' promises that wrap around our hearts and hold us". 

 

To me, who could see my son's journey in big picture format...it was clear. 
But to him, his art looked like a tangled mess.          

 

Then it hit me...

 

Maybe God wants to reassure me when I feel discouraged, or misunderstood.      

 

"Your story reflects my faithfulness too. 

I've been with you your entire life and have full understanding.
You will someday too...I promise. 
Oh, how I've longed to hold you, my child. 
I am on my feet, hands clapping, 
with overwhelming love and excitement over you...
just like you are your son. 
My heart breaks when I see you hurting. 
Please let me love you. 
I will never, ever stop."

 

The circumstances used by the enemy of our souls
 to frustrate and strangle the life out of us,
can be the very instruments 
God uses to weave our lives into galleries of hope.            

 

All too often we feel like God is far away,
 watching only from a distance.
Life experiences scream at us, making us feel that God has abandoned us,
or is only there to punish us when we don't measure up. 
And we never can. 
Yet He says, 

 

"Peace, Peace to those near and far...
and I will heal them."

 

His eye is on us - yes. 
But as a loving Savior
who longs to draw us into His arms of mercy. 
He will take the tangled threads of our lives
and transform them into a masterpiece; 
if we allow Him to carefully stitch our broken hearts
back together,
piece by piece.    

We can breathe a sign of relief and feel our hearts
 come alive again,
embraced by His promises. 
~ Envelope us with Your Love, Father ~

 

He is closer than a brother.