Have you ever had a day you wish would end because it is so boring, or so frustrating, or even so mean? Those days limp on two broken legs, holding on with such force you think the day might consume you? Throughout them, you listen for God, or for your purpose, or even for someone who loves you to enter the room, to change your focus, to heal the brokenness and allow you to walk, no run through the rest of the day. I’ve had many of those days, either from before I was married or after Amy passed away. There were a few during my marriage, but very few, and usually those days we were both bending beneath the overwhelming burden.
At different times in my life I’ve found myself on a journey to find peace or joy. Usually it’s when I’ve spent every ounce of strength I have and can’t even begin to think of “taking care of me” so I can take care of others.
This time around, I’m not spent, neither am I feeling like an overused, over-stretched dollar in a starving college kid’s pocket. Tired? Yes. But I’m getting sleep. Alone? Yes, but for the most part I haven’t been lonely. When I started to feel lonely is when I reached out in prayer. The answer, from many angles has been to play, to be thankful, and to laugh.
I’ve wanted this shirt since I first saw it in August 2018. It made me laugh so hard I was squeaking and nearly as purple as the shirt. My wife’s parents gave it to me for my birthday. Wearing it to school today brought so many giggles and outright laughs. Sometimes I’ve thought of myself as the “Rhino in the Room.” What I didn’t realize is that I’m actually just a chubby unicorn!
*So today I’m very grateful that God had an incredible sense of humor, and that He uses it to teach how to take care of me. Try laughing. You’ll feel sho much better. 😁🤣
If you know me well, you know I love birthdays. Most people do not relish getting older… me… well, I’m a bit odd! Thirteen days after turning 20, I had 3 different people think I was 40-45 years old. I cared then. I was depressed. I spent a week or two really bothered by people thinking I was TWICE my age. As I grew closer to 40, I anxiously anticipated finally being the age I looked.
Yesterday I turned 46. It started off at 5:00 a.m. (45 mins earlier than my typical routine). I wanted to take my two at home out for a Biscuits Cafe breakfast. We arrived, only to find the restaurant closed. Google said it opened at 6:30, so we went to Dutch Bros for coffee and returned. When we tried to the door, we noticed a new sign saying they didn’t open until 7:00 a.m.! Google lied. Plan B? Starbucks sandwiches with our Dutch Bros coffee, followed by Sesame Donuts! Many laughs were had as I drove the boys to school.
My day at school was inundated. “Happy birthday, Mr. Johnson!” Cards. Many dark chocolate with raspberry candy bars. Hugs galore! It was an extremely life giving and career affirming day.
When I arrived home, I was greeted…oddly. There was a coffee mug with a Starbucks coffee (Amy’s signature white choc., pumpkin, cinnamon dulche latte) sitting by my front door and 2 Amazon packages on the table; but that’s not what was odd. Both boys met me with grins (one having tried to convince me over the phone he was ill, the other who cannot keep a surprise having gone with hous brother’s plan). They led me to the kitchen table and turned out the lights. My youngest dashed out of the room and reappeared with a candle-lit, purple cake (inside and out). My favorite color. They don’t do surprises well, especially the middle one. When I stumbled on the information that the secret coffee gift givers were my oldest and a dear family friend, I was in awe. My oldest, in college a state away, found a way to be present on my birthday. I was truly overwhelmed.
As I reflected, I thought about my birthday party on Saturday. Amy’s sister and her husband pulled out the stops putting it together. I was really blessed. And Sunday at church, a dear friend gave me a large package of homemade peppermint patties.
My heart was full.
Sitting in reflection last night is when I heard His still small voice, for the fourth time in as many days: “You’re not alone. There are many people who see you, appreciate you, and love you.” Then He challenged me to a year of starting every day with gratitude.
Today, I’m grateful for “birthdays” like yesterday!
I purchased these flowers on a whim today…well, not actually a whim. It all started last night. The Plan that is.
When I got home last night, I had already been worrying about what to do today, on this the 3rd anniversary of my wife’s journey Heaven-ward. I was worried I’d wake up at the same time I’ve woken up for the last 3 years: 5:46 a.m. I was worried 1 or more of my sons would have a terrible dream or meltdown or anxiety attack. I was worried one of them wouldn’t go to school today and the day was be a roller coaster of tears, and sobs, and Why God? prayers. I was worried.
So…what do I do when I’m worried? I ask for prayer. Last night at my men’s Bible study, I asked the guys who keep me accountable in my daily life to pray for peace. Then I came home again. To my surprise, my worry was gone. I thought about my plan for the day (I’d already secured a substitute teacher and had taken the day off). I’d take whichever boy who wanted a ride to school; I’d have coffee with my close friend who came to my house that fateful morning (to check in and to say thanks…again); I’d catch a movie, maybe get a rose and lunch at Applebee’s – the site of our first date. Plan made, I fell asleep. When my alarm woke me at 6:00 a.m. I was at peace. Anxiety and fear of the day was nowhere to be found. It was as if Abba God was saying I got you, Thom – just like He did on that morning. I woke the boys and went about the morning.
No one wanted a ride to school. I had to pick up my car from the repair shop (that’s a whole different post), so I headed out for my day. After picking up the van, I swung into the grocery store to get ingredients for a special dinner for tonight with my boys. When I walked into Trader Joe’s, there were the flowers. I remembered my “plan” and looked for a long stem, white rose. There weren’t any, but that didn’t matter. Stareing me in the face was this bunch of flowers that took me back to my first date with Amy. I’d stopped to get her flowers late that morning, 22 years ago. Not knowing if I was actually going out for coffee or actually going on a first date, I wanted to be prepared. I decided to pick up flowers but didn’t want to send the wrong message. I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in an old folks home!
I knew not to pick red roses; those stand for impassioned love. I was head over heals for Amy, but I didn’t want to drive her away.
I knew not to pick pink roses; those stand for admiration and joy. They are too close to red roses and I still didn’t want to spook her (especially if it wasn’t a real date – which is a longer story for another time).
I knew not to pick white roses; those stand for purity and weddings.
And yellow roses meant friendship, but I didn’t want to be in the “friend-zone”.
So I prayed; right there in the florist shop, I asked God what flowers to pick up for an I’m-pretty-sure-this-is-a-date date. A boquet caught my attention. It was more colorful than what I bought this morning, but it had a white flower in the middle of it that looked amazing.
When I handed the flowers to Amy, she said, “White roses are my favorite!” I panicked. Really panicked.
After a sharp inhale, I replied, “…but I didn’t buy white roses…”, trying to sound sure of myself and not fall apart like I’d done on all my first dates in college. (To sum up…all 4 of them were TERRIBLE! I was nauseous all day and too afraid to talk to my date! Each one was a bigger disaster than the last!)
Amy inspected the flowers and unwrapped them. Sure enough, I hadn’t bought a bouquet with a white rose, but the flower, all bunched up in the florist plastic could have passed for a rose. I don’t know the name of the flower. I think it’s a mum. But it’s the same flower that was staring me down at Trader Joe’s this morning. So, I bought them. They are in my house right now. A man from church once told me, “I think men deserve to have flowers in the house now and then. Guys deserve beautiful things to look at too.” I’ve been looking at these flowers off and on today. Each time I’m filled with a warm sensation, a mixture of peace and joy. Amy would have loved them.
I chose to punt my idea of a movie until after my boys got home. I found a “second run” theater showing the live action Alladin tonight at 6:30. If you know our family, you know we always took the boys to the new Disney films. And we, Amy and I, thoroughly enjoyed them along with our boys – maybe even more (I mean, we did go see Cars 2 without them on opening night!).
I’ve texted with my oldest – only because his day is so jam packed (we talked last night) – to make sure he was doing okay. He’s nervous, but for good reasons. He’s casting his first musical with auditions today. His mom would have been so very proud of him.
When my youngest two got home from school today, they were peaceable. No one looked as if they’d had an emotionally haggard day. They changed clothes and are now at the swimming pool. They’ll be home soon, ready to make homemade pizza like Mom started making with them a year before she passed away. It’s a family favorite. In fact, when my oldest was home from his internship last week, he’d requested it. I’m going to prep for pizza and then a movie. Tonight’s ending with the same warm feeling I was blessed with at the beginning of the day. Abba God, You are so incredible to smile down on one so insignificant as me and make my day so wonderful. Thank you!
Mother’s Day comes as a wonderful day of celebration for most, or maybe only for many while the rest glue plastic smiles on and pretend the day is one of celebration. There are three ladies in my life who I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day, and this year, not one of them is here to celebrate.
My mother still lives, however, by her own choices, is no longer part of my life. I’ve struggled since childhood with the “Ideal of Motherhood.” I’ll be the first to admit fault and broken humanity makes for trying times; however, the woman I knew to be my mother did not exist. I could deal with the duality when we were apart – it’s easier to hold onto a dream when there’s distance – but, each time our paths crossed, each time we were in the same room, the pain was undeniably immense. When my own children began to experience pain with which they never should have had to deal, I sought pastoral counseling. It was a difficult process, a difficult time of soul searching, and a difficult decision. We laid ground rules. I reached out with an olive branch. It was clear she didn’t want a relationship with me or my family anymore. I mourned that day almost as if the angel of death had come to visit.
A few years prior, my mother-in-law was on the angel’s pick-up list. Ten years prior, on the eve of my wedding night, God told me we would only have a brief 10 years with Amy’s mom. A few months later, Susan was called upon to pray over a family friend’s son who had been in a severe skiing accident that should have taken his life. Susan asked Amy and me to go with her. We gathered at the friend’s house and prayed. I learned how to pray that night – to really pray – at the knee of a warrior woman of God. That night I became Elisha to Susan’s Elijah. In my spirit, I knew I wanted a double portion of her blessing. At the end of the night, when we’d returned to Susan’s house, I asked her for something I knew I had no right for which to ask, but I also knew I couldn’t NOT ask.
“Mom,” I started, searching for the courage to finish the request, “can I have your Bible when you’re finished with it?”
“Thom, you don’t know what you’re asking for,” she started. “I mean…I won’t be finished with it until….” Her words fell away. She looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Today you have truly become my son.”
I didn’t really realize the gravity of that statement for a very long time. Nine years later, while she lay in a hospital bed after her first of many heart attacks, I stood trembling.
“Mom…” Amy stepped out of the curtained area to give us privacy. She knew what I was going to ask, and she felt she needed to leave us alone. “Mom,” I started again, “I’ve come to ask for that double blessing,” I finished just above a whisper.
“Thom, it’s not up to me, but I’ll ask,” she said with a slight smile. Then she lay her hand on top of mine and prayed. A little over a year later she was gone. That loss rocked my world. It rocked Amy’s world. It rocked my boys too. The realization of my request has grown inside of me in ways I had not anticipated…especially in the past two years.
The last woman I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day was Amy, my dear wife. Two years before we’d even met, I’d been diagnosed with a pituitary tumor and a disfiguring growth disease. The doctors told me I would never sire children. When Amy and I began dating, it was one of the first things I disclosed. For many, it would have been a deal breaker. We began talking and planning for an adoption…five actually. Eight months after we were married, Amy was told she could never carry a child. Three months later we learned that doctors only “practice medicine” – they haven’t perfected it.
It was my 25th birthday, and I was standing in the bathroom of our little apartment holding the pregnancy test strip Amy’d used in the night. When she went to bed, it was negative. When I pulled it out of the trash, it was positive. Fearing a false positive, Amy used the second test strip and then we headed to the doctor’s office for confirmation.
I never saw Amy happier than when she held each of our three sons for the first time. She was a natural at motherhood; she made it look easy…very easy. The first time she held each one, Amy prayed an incredible, warrior mom prayer. I wish I’d had a way to record those prayers so my boys could hear her voice and remember her fierce determination for their souls to know God. Each prayer was unique. Each prayer was expertly fashioned for the child she held. And each prayer was prophetic, asking God to watch over her son(s) through trials, specific trails, she intuitively knew were looming in the shadows of each boy’s future. The only similarity between the prayers was the admission, “God, thank you for loaning us this child, Your child, to raise. Help us do so with Your wisdom and Your Word.”
A tremendous gap was created in our family when God took Amy away from her physical pain and sickness.
Yesterday, I was overwhelmed with the “looming onset” of this matriarch holiday. I didn’t know how I would navigate the day with my boys. Our first Mother’s Day without Amy happened to also be my oldest’s 18th birthday. We spent the day celebrating the women in my boys’ life who stepped into the vacuum left by their mother. It was a happy and sad day. Last year was an awful fight between one child and the rest of the family. This year, I wanted a different day. But I didn’t know what that day would look like. My youngest wanted to bake a cake and then hole up in his room after church on Mother’s Day…to “get through it.” My angel with Autism wanted to watch his mother’s memorial service and then “do everything Mom would have loved to do with us!” My oldest would still be on campus in Southern California, spending Mother’s Day with an empty dorm and a few other RA’s stuck on campus for the 48-hours-after-checkout duties. I couldn’t think of a plan because I couldn’t think of a way around re-watching the memorial service and walking around with a shredded heart for the day.
When I find myself up against a wall, unable to move, in this season of parenting, I’ve learned to reach out for help. I sent a text out to a few of the women God’s firmly planted in my sons’ lives with my dilemma. The result was astounding. I found myself marveling at God’s miracle. The Mom Mafia spoke – many of them replied to my text – with the same message: this year is to be about making new, fun traditions – Amy wouldn’t have wanted us to all be locked in the house sobbing, unable to keep on living.
Pig ‘N Pancake (Seaside, OR)
So today, this Mother’s Day, without any mothers, my youngest two headed to the beach to laugh and make new memories.
On the beach together
Tonight, I marvel at the wonderful day that was had (even by Micah). I want to celebrate the Mom Mafia who, nearly three years later, are still offering wise warrior mom prayers, who are still seeking ways to love on my boys and speak into their lives, and who are continuing to impart wisdom and encouragement to this tired dad, in spite of the parental load they already carry. May God richly bless this army of women (and their brave and wonderful husbands).
-C, -J, -J, -K, -L, -M, -M, -M, -N, -S — “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace” (Num. 6:24-26).
It’s an interesting word. Passion literally means “strong and barely controllable emotion.” We often pair it with a goal to achieve, a driving force, or romantic love. But that’s not what I witnessed at my house this weekend.
Heading into Easter, my youngest and I watched Mel Gibson’s The Passionof the Christ, starring Jim Caviezel as Jesus of Nazareth. It was my third time experiencing the movie, and it affected me no less than the previous two showings (one in a theater and one on a Christmas Eve a long time ago with Amy and her parents).
We had just been reading the Easter story in our morning devotions this week when I suggested to my son that we watch it. Knowing how it affected me, I should not have been surprised at my son’s visceral passion as he put voice to his confusion, grief, and passion. I can still hear him screaming at the Roman guards and at Caiaphas, the High Priest.
Each viewing, my body has reacted violently to every crack of the cane and whip, each lash of the cat-of-nine-tails, and every jarring fall under the weight of the Cross. It astounds me that the brutality depicted in the movie was “toned down” to receive an “R” rating. The violent handling of my Lord and Maker was much worse than depicted in the movie… and what I witnessed in the movie left me physically ill.
Each time I’ve watched that movie I’ve been struck by many things, but a different one seems to hang onto me for hours and days after the viewing. The first time I watched it the epiphany that Mary most likely watched each painful step of her son’s excruciating crawl down the Via Dolorosa. She also felt each smack of the hammer as it struck the spikes. When Mary’s memory takes the story back to a time when Jesus, as a little boy, falls, she runs to him to comfort him. I was undone. Watching her seemingly stare down Satan seconds later shows a determination, and resignation, I never ascribed to the Virgin Mother.
The second time I watched it, finishing in the wee hours of Christmas morning, I was struggling for breath when I realized the symbolism of God the Father crying. The dad in me was again undone, filleted by the deeper understanding of God the Father. It was then that I began referring to The Father as Abba. I finally saw His “daddy’s heart” after so many years of only viewing him akin to Zeus.
This time watching the epic was much different than the last two viewings. Those were marked by an eerie quiet with an undertone of quiet sobbing and nearly silent sniffing. My son’s reaction could not be contained like so many adults. He was so enraged by Caiaphas, Pilot, and the Roman soldiers.
“How can they do that?”
“Can’t they see they are killing him?!?”
“How could you be so evil?”
“This is all your fault!”
My son’s jabs were hurled at a deaf television while the characters continued on without acknowledging him. I, however, was neither deaf nor blind to him. His sobs could not be muted. His cries could not be ignored. His flinches could not be unheard.
When the scene where Mary tries to comfort her bloodied son came on screen, I heard wailing, bolstered by a realization…or maybe it was a new understanding that only the grief my little one has wrestled with of late could comprehend.
This daddy’s heart was rent, watching my youngest wrestle with some of the same “strong and barely controllable emotion” I never understood until I was at least twice his age.
The global church has done a good job romanticizing the event and the weapon of such
Picture courtesy of DeseretBook.com
demonic physical and mental torture. Do I understand, yes… and no. Watching such a visceral depiction of something I was originally taught on a flannel graph in Sunday School made me feel cheated… actually, no, I felt ashamed because I never understood the depths of pain and agony Yeshua allowed Himself to receive at the hands of wicked men so that I could be saved. Can children handle the level of violence this event held, no, but somewhere along the road, I feel as if I should have realized, or been shown, just how wholly evil, brutal, and wicked this event truly was. I can no longer look at the symbol of the cross without replaying the violence in my head. I am so ever grateful for the sacrifice of my Lord and Savior. May I never again romanticize the event as a thing of beauty.
My students and I read the short essay “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle last week. The first time I read it (Oct. 2017), it put me under the pile. Doyle had died just months before I read it, and Amy had passed away a year prior. The irony and profound message were not lost on me. This time, the lesson for me was a bit different.
The essay begins with Doyle talking about Hummingbirds and hummingbird hearts.
Andrew E. Russell/Flickr (as found on The American Scholar: Joyas Voladoras page)
He’s not really talking about the hummingbird but using it as a metaphor for a much closer-to-home issue. It’s not until near the end of the essay that the reader realizes Doyle is talking about the human heart.
Speaking of the hummingbird, Doyle states, “They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor…their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be.” (emphasis mine)
Later in the essay, Doyle switches to the heart of the majestic blue whale, the largest animal to live on the third rock from the sun. He admits that we know “nearly nothing” about this magnificent creature once it finishes puberty. “But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.” (emphasis mine)
Taking a moment to run through a list of animal heart types, Doyle then surprises the reader with the third profundity: “No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.” (emphasis mine)
I found myself churning in the middle of a room full of 6th-grade students. I was gasping for air, desperately trying to stamp down the flood of emotion threatening to pour out of me…having lost my “pair”…having reached torpor.
What happens to the Christian who is exhausted from “doing too much for the kingdom” and is giving more than they have to give? What about the teacher who stays up late to grade papers so his students can get their essays back within a day or two? Or the single parent of three, desperately trying to keep all schedules straight, deliver kids to the right place at the right time, go grocery shopping and clothes shopping, pay bills, and fill out taxes let alone keep tabs on each of the delicate hearts left solely to him to shepherd? Torpor? Yes, utter exhaustion, sometimes maybe even “come[ing] close to death.”
This lonely father of three hit Torpor many months ago. The last seven months being the darkest months to date. Standing in that room, with 6th graders staring at me, having heard the hitch in my voice, I realized that God – and a few godly friends – have been at work to warm my heart so that I can once again “soon find that which is sweet.” I pray my heart doesn’t completely grow cold and that I don’t settle for Spenda when God’s sweet nectar is within reach.
I know it’s an odd question for many, and the picture below might confuse you a bit, but I hope I’ve got your attention.
When answering my question, many of you probably think of lovers kissing, a couple holding hands while taking a leisurely walk, or exuberant hugs from little children. Others of you probably think of diamond rings, beautiful weddings, and watching a movie while snuggled on the couch with a loved one. For me, I have a pretty different view of love.
Notice the glove?!?
Friday, February 22, was the 22nd anniversary of my first date with my wife Amy. It was a crazy day. We were getting together for coffee to talk about youth ministry (honest!). That was all the 1-hour meeting over a cup of joe was supposed to contain. Then God intervened when a mutual friend changed both our expectations of the appointment – just 20 hours before it was set to take place. A 1-hour coffee meeting turned into an almost 13-hour date (complete with flowers, a movie, and 2 meals). I’m waiting to hear if it breaks the Guinness Book record as the longest first date!
Shortly after picking Amy up for the date, I recognized things felt different than any other first date I had ever had. In college, when preparing for a first date, my stomach was in so many knots, food never stayed long in my stomach. This time was very different. By the end of lunch (a 5-hour event because we’d lost track of time), I knew I’d found the love of my life. We’d been talking every night for the 3 weeks prior, so I already had an inkling on my way into Applebees.
For the next 19 years, I held Amy’s hand, brushed hair from her face before kissing her, and washed the dishes. Yes! I washed dishes because I loved my wife. Amy had sensitive skin that broke out with horrible eczema if her hands were submerged in water for long. So, because I loved her, I washed dishes (until my kids needed to learn how to do this chore).
Shortly after we were married, Amy wanted to take a cake decorating class. Then she wanted to take a “Stamping It Up” class. Then she wanted to take a Creative Memories class. We did them all together. Did I really want to do those things? Eh. Did I want to do them with Amy? YES! She made those classes fun. We had a blast together. I got to spend time with her and learned some wonderful skills that I now get to pass on to my kids…her kids.
Many years ago, it was popular in the church to find your “Love Language”. Since then, it’s become a trend outside the church as well. Amy’s love language was Gifts, followed closely by Time. When I found out, I was mortified. We were living on a Christian school teacher’s salary. Every penny was accounted for before the check was cashed. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to afford to give Amy gifts. Amy saw the terror unveiling across my face at that couple’s retreat.
“You have given me so many gifts already, Thom,” she whispered. “You gave me this,” she said, pointing to her wedding ring. “You gave me a beautiful baby boy.” Our oldest was only 6 months old at the time. “And you wash the dishes every day.” The last one puzzled me, but she didn’t explain; she just turned around and continued listening to the speaker. It took God many years to help me understand… and accept that my dishwashing was a gift, a real gift.
With Valentine’s Day not so long past, and the 22nd anniversary of our 1st date just days ago, the question “What does love look like in our home now?” has been playing in my head. Maybe it’s because I miss her. Maybe it’s because I got used to giving Amy gifts and spending time with her. Maybe it’s because I’m finally on the other side of the heart-crushing pain of loss.
When thinking of dinner two nights ago, I thought of Amy. What would she have made for dinner? Then I remembered, they loved her spaghetti, but because of my allergy to tomatoes, my boys don’t get to eat it often. Take a gander at the pic. See the purple glove? What you can’t see are the long sleeves pulled down with the gloves pulled up over the cuffs. It was fun. The hardest part was not tasting my creation. Isaiah was happy to taste it for me when he got home. It needed a little more salt and pepper.
I made enough for the boys to have 3 different dinners of spaghetti. They didn’t jump up and down when they ate it, but their plates were empty in minutes…no complaints. I call that a win.
So, what does love look like at your house? In mine, it’s washing dishes, homemade gifts, and making spaghetti.
Last weekend I was violently awakened by the pounding on my bedroom door and my middle son screaming, “Dad, the bathroom downstairs is flooding!” I did not descend the stairs in a loving, cheerful manner. It probably resembled a rampaging herd of buffalo. I was barking commands like a Marine drill sergeant, back before the military made them take emotional training courses. It was a war zone when I reached the bathroom. Luckily – which probably had everything to do with God and/or my guardian angel and nothing to do with luck – I reached the bathroom before the icky water drained into the forced-air vent on the floor. I grabbed the hand towels and barked orders for more resources. Needless to say, it was not fun.
After the flood waters receded, and the floor had been mopped with clean water, I began
The “cleaned” plunger and holder.
to put things back where they belonged. That’s when I noticed how dirty the plunger holder had become. An odd duality played in my head: 1) guilt for having yelled and used language that would make some sailors proud and 2) the question ‘When was the last time had this plunger and holder had been cleaned?’ Sadly, that question was followed by, ‘Have I ever cleaned the plunger and holder?’ I was mortified by the realization that there were things in my house needing cleaning that had never been cleaned. I turned on the sink to the hottest water possible and grabbed for the strongest cleanser I had.
At some point, while standing at the sink, scrubbing the…ick, wishing I hadn’t let a string of expletives fly while I flew down the stairs, IT hit me: **THINGS** happen (think Forrest Gump). I got the giggles. In the middle of the giggles, I was hit with an epiphany: God loves me, even when I cuss, even when parts of my heart have not been cleaned in a long time, even when I’m coated in feculence… like the plunger and its holder. I don’t know about you, but I struggle with taking a close look at my heart, under God’s guiding light, in order to root out those places that need cleaning. You all probably know that the plunger in your bathroom needs to be cleaned ever so often. Me…I do now; but more importantly, God and I had a long chat, with His light on my heart, a little brighter than before. I’m not perfect, neither am I really knowledgeable about house cleaning, but I’m getting better…and a little cleaner day by day…inside and out.
December 23, 2018, was an important night for me. I was in the middle of the Candlelight service at my church. I was holding two candles like I’ve done each Christmas Candlelight Service since my wife died. While waiting for the rest of the candles in the room to get lit, I asked God, “Abba, how do we move on into this next year?” It was a prayer I’ve asked many times when a new year is staring down the barrel at me. Usually, I feel God direct me – sometimes immediately, but most times, as the days go on, His plan falls into place. This time was different.
“Put out a candle, Thom.”
It wasn’t audible, but it was distinct. I shook my head. That can’t be right. I’ve been holding on to two candles since Amy died, to honor her. I’m sure that wasn’t God.
“Yes, Thom, it’s me. I said, put out a candle. It’s time.”
Not wanting to give myself time to talk me out of God’s directive, I licked my forefinger and thumb and pinched out the flame. There was a finality to it. I immediately felt a difference, as if something tangible inside of me happened when I snuffed out the flame.
I remember shaking my head slightly, looking down at my hand that held a lit candle and a used candle. I wasn’t sobbing. I was at peace.
“It’s time.”
There is a lot of meaning in those two words. I’m wondering what all God has in mind, but He didn’t take long to start me down the path of change.
A few days later, I was asking my sons’ counselors about the process of redecorating the house. I’ve been very antsy about helping my boys and me move out of the season of grief caused by the daily reminder of loss.
“It’s high time for a Bachelor Pad,” one of the counselors said. “Don’t do it all in one weekend, but be intentional. Have a box ready to store things you and your boys do not want to give away. Put the things of Amy’s in the box that you all want to keep, but that really don’t have a place in a bachelor pad. Put the box somewhere safe so everyone can go check on it when he needs to make sure Mom’s things are still there. Then put the lid back on the box and put it away. Tackle one room at a time. It’s time.” The other counselor agreed and said something similar. She too ended with “It’s time.” I felt confirmation in the continued reminder.
One week after the candlelight service, I was talking with some close family friends. I filled them in on God’s directive and told them I was praying the boys’ transition would be positive, even if it was painful. A week later my phone rang. One of the same friends I’d been talking to was on the other end.
Out with the old… (complete with 2 dressers, an armoire, and 2 side table dressers)
“Thom, my mom’s getting rid of her solid oak bedroom set. I sent you an email with pictures. Check it out and let me know if you’re interested.” I opened the email to look at the pictures. I was overwhelmed. The bedroom set I’d been using was the one Amy and I purchased two weeks before we got married. Climbing into it each night brought with it a sense of loss, a reminder that I would wake up alone in the morning. I’d been wanting to purchase a new set, but knew it would be too costly. I was trying to figure out how to purchase a new set, but God had a different plan.
When the arrangements were made for the new bed to arrive, I offhandedly asked another friend of the family if she knew of anyone who might need a bedroom set. She did. It was another confirmation of God’s divine plan. The following Saturday morning, the new bedroom set arrived after the old one had been brought downstairs. Two hours later, a packed U-Haul left my home on its way to bless someone God wanted to bless. I slept soundly that night for the first time in years.
had no idea God was going to start the “Bachelor Pad Makeover” in my bedroom, but He did. For the last three weeks, I’ve slept in a new sanctuary. Little by little, the rest of the house is changing too. And my boys…they are helping to create the Bachelor Pad.
In with the new…
Two Sundays ago, one of the pastors at my church said, “God is never late, but he sure does miss many opportunities to be early.” I remember chuckling, thinking about my impatience, but tonight, I realized that I’d rather be in God’s timing than mine. If it had been up to me, I’d be making payments on a new bedroom set for the next three to five years, struggling to figure out how it would all work out financially. The next time I’m impatient, I pray I remember to be patient and listen for “It’s time” from on high. God’s timing is truly perfect.
The last 4 months have been a whirlwind. Learning to balance single parenting, a full-time teaching career, volunteering at church, and taking care of me has been a steep learning curve. At the end of September, I hit a wall. There wasn’t any margin in my life. I was skimping on sleep. I was skimping on taking the time to prepare healthy food for myself. I was skimping on the things I knew I needed to be doing.
“God!?! How do I fix this mess,” I think was my actual prayer. The answer wasn’t an easy one to swallow.
“Take a break.”
“I don’t need to take a break!” I retorted. “I’m doing just fine. Besides, I’m doing all this stuff…this good stuff…and…what are they going to do without me?”
I see the folly of my thinking now, but at the time, I was sure I had to convince God I was doing so much for the Kingdom, for His Kingdom, and “Who would do it if I weren’t doing it?” What a shot to the ego, right? How dare God ask me to step down from things I loved doing?!? How dare He tell me to stop doing things for Him?!?
If you’ve never argued with God, you should try it – just to say that you’ve experienced it and can then understand those of us with thicker skulls.
God began to show me where my over-commitment was hurting more than helping. I was Sleepy. I was Grumpy. And it didn’t look like I’d ever be Happy. My students were driving me nuts. Why? Because they were acting like typical 6th graders. I mean, how dare they?!? My friends were asking, “What’s wrong?” more often than I thought was normal. And my kids, the sweet ones God gave Amy and me to raise, were wondering if I actually lived at home anymore. They never saw me. And when they did, I was mimicking one of the 7 Dwarves, and not the fun ones. When I realized just how impactful my absence at home had been, I made an appointment for the very next day to take a break. It was hard to look into the eyes of a very close friend and tell him I had to stop volunteering under his ministry for a time. It was excruciating to look my youngest in the face and ask for his forgiveness.
“I haven’t been taking care of me,” I said one night. He was a bit surprised, having expected a rant to come out of me. “I used to get on your mom a lot to take care of herself. She was so good with her diabetes while she was pregnant. Then after each pregnancy, things would slip and she’d get busy and she’d forget to take care of herself.”
After she was diagnosed with kidney failure, Amy said to me, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that taking care of you and the kids meant taking care of me.” Sitting in front of my 14-year-old, choking on that realization was humbling.
I spent 2 1/2 months in hiatus from my volunteer positions at church (both of them). I resigned a tutoring job I’d taken “to help make ends meet” – a tutoring job for a student who really needed the help. And I signed up for a Bible study focused on being healthy in a non-healthy world. Each decision was extremely difficult. However, I’ve spent more time with my kids. I’ve been there for my kids when they needed me. I’ve even been there for my kids when they wanted me to be there.
I was reminded this week, in the midst of a very dark set of circumstances (none of my doing, but none that confidentiality will let me explain), that it is very important I continue to take care of me. Why? Because I can’t take care of my 3 boys if I don’t have the energy, time, and space to take care of them. And to get that energy, time, and space…I have to say “No” sometimes, even to “good things”. A wise Couples Bible Study leader once taught me that. I’d forgotten. Here’s to getting sleep, eating well, and laughing much!
Good Grief?!? 