Singing in the Pain

Once upon a time, I had two, sweet, cheerful, well-behaved little girls, and a six week old infant who spent his (very few) waking hours gazing about him with big, bright eyes and a faintly amused expression.

When he was not peering out from his baby carrier like a tiny owl, he was sleeping peacefully or chirping and murmuring over his food.

When my girls were not bouncing through the house in one of their cheerfully shared pastimes, they were at my elbow learning, singing, helping, laughing.

Perfect?  No.  But generally easy enough to cause me to float along in a peaceful, self-congratulatory stream of confidence.  I was winning at parenting and winning at life.  

I had methods to share and advice to give.  In fact, I had this thing so in hand that I registered myself, my baby, and my two small daughters for a day-long bus trip garden tour with my local garden club when Elijah was only six weeks old.

Without a second thought.

Of course it would go well!  I had created a bubble of peace and tranquility which would follow along wherever I went, enabling me and my children to enjoy every fresh opportunity that broke upon us.  

And we did.  The bus trip was a delight, and the gray haired grandmas in my club fluttered and cooed around my flock and told me what a beautiful family I had, and how excellent their behavior was, and how content my baby was, and I nodded and blushed and smiled, accepting the compliments like bouquets from adoring fans.

Truth be told, I took the credit and sat on a ballooning cushion of pride.  

Now, I'm not saying it is bad to want easy infants and well-behaved children. That has been and remains my goal.  I have not stopped being a student of clever parenting hacks.  I have not stopped trying to be a person my children would want to be close to and be like.  I still exhort and encourage and pray and plan.  

But I no longer take the credit for "success" in my home.  Life has uncovered in me a recognition that much of my self-acknowledged equilibrium was only there because I wasn't being bumped.

By the grace of God, after a season of relative peace, Jamey and I entered a decade that we have affectionately named "the screeching fall."

It was both devastating and enlightening.

And also necessary.

That decade included a steady stream of health problems, the death of a brother, the birth of a couple more kiddos who didn't just sign on to the existing "Birmingham lifestyle protocol", but rather blazed new trails--one by basically, inhaling the world via his enormous appetites and personality, and one who arrived with a health and disposition as delicate as a china cup--combined with grueling hours for Jamey at work, the seven year search for a medical partner for him, and finally an interminable foster care saga ending in the adoption of two precious but badly wounded kiddos.

It blew up my existing strategies and shook me to the core. My confidence waned and made me second-guess myself in both appropriate and foolish ways.

There are years I barely remember, other than that they were marked by a pervasive sense of my inadequacy to meet the deep pain, fear, and uncertainty that were the biggest emotions in my smallest children.  Their pain bled out into the lives of our other children and into Jamey and me.

For a long time, I remember thinking, "I can't wait until..." or, "things will be better when..."

I think in the back of my mind, my plan was to cling tight to my faith through the crisis phase of life en route to a new plateau of peace, where I could again gather my chickies around me, regroup, dust off my plans, and resume the life wherein I was reliant on God and grateful for his help, but not all sloppy and pathetic about it. 

I much preferred to think of myself as strong and courageous in my faith, not embarrassingly desperate, wild-eyed, and prone to bouts of weeping.

My hope was to eventually be able to enter society again looking somewhat put together--or at least without ugly, unmet needs hanging out all over the place.  


But there I was, exhausted. Uncertain.  Even afraid.

That's not the life victorious, is it?

Maybe.  For some of us it is. 

Because it is the life I wake up to every morning, and these broken hearts are the ones God has given me to love, and this is the place where I am called to stand and be faithful, pouring out my time and energy and gifts into a well whose depths I cannot fathom.  

I stare into little eyes every day that carry scars behind them.  Some of my children came into the world having been soaked in a poisonous cocktail of alcohol and drugs for nine months.  Just like their mothers before them.  Victims of addiction and abuse.  

And so our homeschool doesn't look like I dreamed it would and my children don't process life like I wish they could and our happily ever after doesn't look like a happily ever after should. 

Instead, I teach the same things over and over and they try so hard to concentrate, but the world is louder for them and confusing, and their little minds refuse to hold on to many of the things that come so easily to their peers.  And they greet people with suspicious eyes and they take what they want and lash out at the slightest provocation.

And my bio children have issues they were born with too.  As do I.  As does Jamey.  And in addition to those issues, we have other issues that we have picked up along the way via shell shock, exhaustion, and chronic illness, which makes us a somewhat motley crew.

But this is what I want you to hear:

There is beauty here.

And if my life sounds a little bit like yours, I invite you to lean in a minute and see that although there are many things we don't have (and may never),

there are many things we DO have...

...and they are rare and wonderful.

Consider these blessings:  

1) Our smug self-reliance has given way to a desperate dependence on God.  

There is no shame in desperation.  As with so much in the kingdom of God, the thing we fear often becomes the doorway into the thing we really need.  Matthew 5:3 says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." 

We enter the kingdom of heaven through repentance for sin, and by humility and submission to God, so each day that I come to the end of myself and acknowledge the hard truth that I have no power here, very little strength, and immense need, I taste the sweetness of total dependence on God and through that I see what is mine in Him.

When I am not distracted by my own "awesomeness", I can actually focus on His.  

I never used to go to sleep praying, and wake up praying, and really crave the presence and affection of my Savior in a visceral way all day long.  

Now I do.  That is a gift.

2) We have more grace for people who are struggling with things we don't understand.

I don't know the way out of my own struggles much of the time.  I can feel myself floundering and I know I am caught in a vortex of pain, but I don't have any idea how to fix it.  

Oh, this has been good for me!  Now, I can recognize another sinking soul from a mile away, and my heart is right there with her because although I may not share her exact struggle, I know what struggle feels like.  

And I know how good it feels to catch hold of a helping hand or to rest for a moment inside the warmth of a tender heart.

So I want to be those things whenever I can, to whomever I can.  We floundering souls understand "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy," don't we?  

Because mercy has become our only hope for making it down here.

3) We realize that our need for grace is limitless.

This is true for everyone, but we see it.  

We see it in the little ones who fight against us even as we fight for them.  (Can you hear the echoes of the passion and compassion of Christ toward us?)

We see it in the way they run to us for forgiveness after they have hurt us...again and again. (Can you see yourself running to God?)

We see our need for grace when we blow up in moments of stress, even after we've promised ourselves we won't add to the ugly.  

We see it in the way we are forgiven, time after time.

Beauty from ashes.  Hope from despair.  And it is ours.

4) Our understanding of God's love for us has been enlarged.

I desperately want good things for my children.  Even when they don't want them.

Even when they are actively running from me. 

Even when they are fierce and adamant about rejecting both me and the beauty I so badly want to give them.  Especially when they are fierce and adamant.  

I have seen myself in their flashing eyes and snarling lips.  I have heard echoes of God in my pleading with them. 

"Come to me!"

"You don't have to be afraid anymore."

"Relax into my kindness.  My heart is toward you."

"Won't you believe that I love you?"

And I have seen myself in their stubborn refusals.  In the way, they burrow down further into their pain, decorating their personal prisons with accusations and fabrications and distortions--things that have no basis in reality, but which confirm their own suspicions and fears.

I have been in that prison, and God's heart has bled over my stubbornness too.  And if He can keep reaching for me, I can keep reaching for them.  

The constant reminders of the deep love of God for me has given me sharpened desire to please Him, to be pure and lovely for Him.  And that comes with a promise.  "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." (Matthew 5:8)
 

5) We realize that people don't all start from the same place and God doesn't judge us by another person's standard.

This does not mean that we are not all sinners, in need of the same salvation.  But like a parent who knows His own children, God does not burden each of us with more than we are capable of.

I know I have a child who has clawed her way into every bit of knowledge she possesses.  She struggles to understand social cues and reacts without thinking about consequences.

I know she does not think about or process life like "typical" kids her age.  

I know I have a son who sees rejection around every corner.  His trust is gained in inches over years and lost in a moment, and he can find reasons to fear even in the midst of celebration and tenderness.

I am fiercely protective of their fragile hearts, and I judge harshly those people who lavish favor and friendship on the lovelier ones and turn hard words and disdainful looks on the hurt ones--as if an innately cheerful disposition or a quick wit is any less a natural dispensation than a melancholy spirit or a damaged brain.

As if pain and emotional disfigurement is less worthy of attention and understanding instead of more.

Who are the least of these?  Who is most deserving of mercy than the most needy among us?

Don't we who live among them know the answer better than anyone?

Which of us would not want ourselves to receive a special measure of care in our infirmities or disabilities?

If I am so understanding of the limitations of my children, how much more perfectly will God understand mine?

If I am so angered by the unkindness of others toward my children, how much more zealous is God in His anger toward people who hurt His beloveds?

And for that reason, how careful I have become to stand up for the weak and the overlooked, and to not have a condescending spirit toward one of His little ones! 

Matthew 5:5 says, "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth." God has made a place of safety for His little lambs.  No matter how weak, frail, and inept at life we are, we are known, understood, and loved by God and given a place of security in Him.  And that is our calling toward each other as well.  

6) Our expectations no longer enslave us.

The expectations I put on others kill my enjoyment of who they actually are.

The expectations I put on life kill my gratitude for what I actually have.

I no longer have expectations that the unique parenting challenges I face every day will ever be lifted.  In fact, I may have a child living with me for the rest of my life.  I don't know. (News flash:  Neither do you. Life can change forever for anyone in a single instant.)

We parents of people from hard places have a head start in actively putting to death our dreams for achieving the "perfect" family.

Again, it is not wrong to work toward raising healthy, functioning adults who love the Lord and bless you with beautiful grand kids and surround you with love, affirmation, and happiness all the days of your life.  

Those are good things.  But they are not a given down here, and the absence of them is not a reason for despair.  

The promise is (and I have tasted it) that every hard thing can become a doorway through which God can draw you into a closer walk with Him, or give you an insight you didn't expect, or an opportunity to grow or a glimpse into His beautiful heart.  

Or just a chance to believe without seeing.  To cling hard to a promise that remains unfelt.

To show God that your love goes deeper than what He can do for you, all the way down to the bedrock of who He is.

I am not saying that we have to be happy when our expectations crash and burn.  There is a real sense of loss when our dreams for something or someone go up in flames.

Grief over loss is appropriate, in fact I think I mourn over something almost every day, but the point is that God does not leave His children uncomforted.

And we don't just get the proverbial, second-best "consolation prize" at the end of the loser's round.  

We get the blessing of not being tricked by the façade. 

We see beyond. The broken hearted don't mistake the lost, broken, dying world for the prize.  We never get confused about where our home is or where our ultimate satisfaction lies.

You won't catch us trying to establish permanent citizenship on this battlefield.

Because we see and feel the war deeply every day, we are reminded that even though we will celebrate victories here, and experience love and friendship and honor and camaraderie, this is not our ultimate kingdom. 

Matthew 5:4 says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." We do grieve for the world in which God and His will are being flaunted, in which beauty is twisted and potential is wasted.  We grieve the death of our hopes and expectations and our bodies, but we know the ending. 

God wins.  And He is bringing us home.

7) The peacemakers and the persecuted better understand the patience of God.

Sometimes I see waves of fear and anger playing behind my son's eyes, and I hear him say hurtful things from a place of panic or desperation, and I have learned to stay. Right. There.

If I do not react in kind.  If I do not express my irritation, or force him to bend to my will, or even correct him in the moment of his fury, then almost always I will see him soften.

If I am in possession of myself, I wait and slowly push through the thick smog of his enormous feelings, and I tie my heart to his, thread by thread with my presence and my patience, my waiting forgiveness, my love for him.

And IF I stay--because I stay--eventually he will allow himself to relax into that love and ONLY then can we begin to talk about circumstances and consequences and the reasons why his behavior is not OK.

Often I can see he still does not understand and he is still angry, but because I have shown him I will stay, he wants to try to trust me.

I said try.  For now, that is what he has to give.

Sometimes that is all we have too, isn't it?  

"Oh God!  I believe!  Help my unbelief!"

And because He stays, we keep running back to His heart.  

This is what I have been given in the picture of my young son, and it gives me hope for him, and for me.

7) We get good at forgiveness.

The more you do something, the better you get at doing it.  I live with a lot of people, and a lot of those people do things to hurt each other and me on a more than average basis.

Once upon a time I had the luxury of arranging my life so as to not be surrounded by people who excel in the fine art of piercing my soul.

Now I live in a hotbed of hurt.  I cry almost every day.  It could be because I am pre-menopausal, or it could be because I don't have a break from little (and big) explosions which require me to not lash out in return, to not hold a grudge, to not keep a ledger, and to not return evil for evil.


It is exhausting and overwhelming, and every time I lift up my broken heart and say, "Not again, God. I can't. It's too much.  Too far.  I'm too tired," I see Him saying, "As I have done for you from the day of your birth, as I will do for you until you take your last breath, so you will do for them out of the overflow of My love for you." John 13:34-35 

And I do.  Because it is a fresh picture of the limitless ocean of grace that is mine, even when I am the one snarling in the corner.  "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God." (Matthew 5:9) 

How can we not be richer for the these opportunities?

9)Gratitude thrives on rare air.

We know this.

Who has the more grateful spirit, the first-world child sitting like a fat chicken on her pile of trinkets and toys, or the little girl from a place of poverty who hold and cherishes and guards her one ragged doll?

The most bored and dissatisfied among us are the ones who have everything and can do anything.

So it is with me.  I don't think to appreciate a head that doesn't hurt until the day after a thrashing migraine.

My parenting challenges also provoke me to gratitude.  Because they come like rare gifts, I measure smiles and kisses less like rain and more like ounces of gold.  When a math concept or a spelling word is remembered two days running, I celebrate.

Peace, flashes of gentleness, and moments of unexpected kindness are great and precious gifts because they are dearly earned.  My thankfulness has spread to include the very small, previously unacknowledged mercies of God.

One of my sons fought all day today to find a kind word for anyone.  His eyes were like lightening and his whole body was as tight as a drum.  All my prayers for peace with him went unanswered and I walked into church tonight with a battered spirit and tears behind my eyes.

But when I joined my boy in the pew, he slid toward me until his elbow was touching mine and laid his head on my shoulder.

And it felt like a benediction.

I pray he comes to the place of trust and security someday where he can meet the storms of life with an easy grace and an understanding of how many people in his life are FOR him.

But for now it is still fight or flight, and so when his little shoulders relax under my hand in the middle of a sermon after a hard day, I mark it in my heart and give thanks.

10) We develop a deep hatred for sin.

In high school I could sing songs with lyrics that advertised a low view of women and a cheap view of sex.

I could watch TV shows that made a joke of violence and abuse and immorality.

I could make allowances for sloppy spirituality because I was insulated from my enemy.

So I didn't take him seriously.

I was playing at war because I didn't know what live fire looked like.

It is like the difference between how a WWII soldier would have felt as he ran training drills with his buddies stateside before he was deployed, and the way he would have felt as he ran shoulder to shoulder with the boys who stormed the beaches at Normandy.

 When I was young it was a game. 

Now I am on my knees, cradling the broken minds and bodies of the ones whose Mamas believed the lies about cheap and easy sex and the pleasures of addiction and violence.  I have their innocent blood smeared on my face and hands.  Their tortured spirits writhe under my helpless gaze and I can barely stand to think about how lightly I took the threat.

Our enemy wants us dead, folks.  Not just dead.  Tortured and screaming and dragging as many others with us as possible.  My hatred for him is as much a part of what keeps me running back into the fray as my love for God is. 

I am just like the soldier who is fighting both for the love of his country and the hatred of all that threatens to destroy it.  And because I have seen the red jaws of evil, I want no part of it any more.  

I will not make light of sin.  I will not laugh at it.  I cannot allow it a space on my bookshelf or on my i-pod or on my television screen.  

To my fellow war-weary comrades, I say this:

Our bullet wounds, and battle scars, and PTSD don't make us the life of the party, but at least we have learned not to be slouchy about the dangers of sin, and that may save our lives someday.

I'm pretty sure that people are sick of hearing me tell them to duck and cover.  I know I am tired of throwing my arm up and feeling my heart race every time the floor squeaks around here, but if a few more Christians would take evil seriously and stop making goo-goo eyes at the spiritual equivalent of the Taliban, maybe the full weight of this fight wouldn't fall on those of us who are already busy pulling charred bodies off the field.  

There is enough work to be done without having to constantly yank our own comrades back into the trenches every time they try to go out dancing in the minefields.

Would I go back?

Back to the days when I thought I had it all together?

Back to when I could be casual with both my faith and my faults?

Back to the illusion that I could special order my happy endings?

Nope (mostly).  Don't ask me tomorrow when I drop my shoulders and finally let those tears slide down my nose.  I do look sideways at other people's pretty pictures sometimes, but deep down I know I am glad I'm here.

Because I would rather live in a hard reality than a pleasant fiction.  

Except for a few weak moments, I would not change places with my younger self.  It is not hyperbole to say that the mental position I have gained in a decade has been worth the bloody knuckles and black eyes.  

I would rather have my faith tested by fire and found true than have it on a shelf--shiny, theoretical, and wrapped in a nebulous hope.


There is a saying attributed to missionary and philanthropist William Borden which I love.  "No reserve, no retreat, no regrets."

Amen, brother!  Today.  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.

Let it be so.