It’s all in the roots, part 2

There is a story I must finish telling, although, I laugh as I write that because the story is far from over. A couple months ago I shared with you all the vision God gave me of a blooming flower back in October of 2015. (Missed it? Click here to read it.) This wasn’t just any blooming flower though. This flower had a stem broken near off, holes beaten through the leaves. An obvious worn and tattered life had broken it down. One would expect this particular flower to wither and die, but the most miraculous thing was happening on the end of the dangling stem. The flower was blooming bright, full and yellow singing to the world of its glory… no, rather of God’s glory. And that glory-proclaiming was deeply rooted in the system of that flower under the ground, weaving it’s roots through others’ and holding it down in a place of nourishment, stability amidst chaos, hope in the shadow of death and redemption in the here and now and to come. There was beauty happening in the midst of the ugly and this bloom demanded others passing by to stop captivated by it’s impossible strength. This… this was the picture God gave me for the life we were journeying.

As I held on to this very clear vision, I found life in it. I knew we were blooming when it didn’t make sense and I felt a sense of joy through our days with Titus. We dove deep into learning to love big and live intentionally in each and every moment. We built and nurtured relationships because that was most important to us. Our community = our roots.

In November of 2016, just 2 short months after Titus went to adventure with Jesus and an entire year since God has inspired me with that vision, Ely came home with a pot of dirt from church. Of course, it spilled on the way home in the car and, of course, I had the worst attitude about it, huffing and scooping the dirt up, throwing it into the pot vowing to toss it when I got inside. Danny, our plant whisperer, told me to set it out on the patio and he was going to see if anything would grow. I set it out there, dusted my hands off and moved on.

Nothing happened those first couple weeks. It appeared Danny was watering dirt. Just dirt. Then one day this tiny little green bud popped out. Danny was so proud (he really can make just about anything grow). We watched this flower grow and grow until it opened up into this gorgeous flower. It’s color? Yellow. What a sweet treasure as we thought of our yellow-loving boy Titus every time we looked at it. It bloomed proud and perfect. Until one day Danny was out chopping wood for an upcoming camping trip. A splinter flung off to one side and chopped that bloom right off. We were so sad. We really grieved this poor flower’s sudden death. The beauty on our patio diminished on that day.

Fast forward to another passing Sunday, my sister and I inside having coffee and conversation, Danny and our brother-in-law Michael outside working on patio projects. We hear a knock on the back door and see Michael’s hand waving us over as he’s holding up a flower pot, face in the window. At first, confused I looked at him trying to figure out what he’s holding, but as I got closer, I felt God wrap me up in a giant bear hug as he whispered, “you are still beautiful because you are my child.” In Michael’s hand was that poor flower who met the death of splintered wood, but it looked different. It’s stem was broken so much it was dangling, and the leaves were a bit beaten up, but hanging at an angle just like the flower in my vision, was this incredible yellow bloom. It spoke through it’s beauty to my heart saying, “You can’t steal my joy.”

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I was in awe at this gift. For God to have reached down in such a way to plant such deep symbolism in my mind in 2015 and then actually create such a scene in my back patio in 2016… Wow!

I thought of all we’d journeyed through in that time. A brand-new, heartbreaking diagnosis for both our boys. The steep learning curve of learning to advocate. The fight to give my child freedom as Batten disease stripped it away. The firm grasp we held to living in the moment and adventuring as a family no matter what the conditions were. And then the “lasts” with Titus. The last time we’d celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, his birthday with him. The last time we’d hear him laugh or see him smile. The last time we’d take him to school. The last time we’d watch him take a breath… a breath that was a last here on Earth, but was a launching pad to Jesus. Then planning a memorial service and celebrating Titus. And then our firsts. Our first chance at fighting against this disease and taking Ely to Ohio for surgery and infusions. All this, and so much more took place between these two events- my vision in 2015 and God’s creative outpouring of glory on my back patio in 2016.

And all this time, I’ve been so very aware of two things.

My brokenness.

His redemption.

 

And really, aren’t we all broken? When you look at this flower, you know what your broken stem and beaten leaves are. We all have them. But at the end of that broken stem is a redemptive bloom. One that reflects the unchanging beauty of Christ that is in ALL of us. Perhaps, when we look at the bloom, our stems and leaves become (dare I say it?) inconsequential? Not because they don’t hurt anymore… oh they do! But because we can see beyond it and know that hope is always worth holding on to because redemption is coming – and in fact – is already happening here and now.

Oh friend, may you see your bloom. May you know deep in your soul just how much Jesus loves you. I mean, really, really loves you. And, my friend? Hold on. Hold on to those hope filled roots, God’s strength and victory always before you, beside you, under you, and all around you.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

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It’s all in the roots, part 1

On October 17, 2015,  exactly 11 months before we would say ‘goodbye for now‘ to Titus, I wrote a journal entry that I haven’t yet shared on my blog, until today. This has become quite a story, one that I will share in parts because it’s a bit long. Welcome to the first chapter.

What preceded this particular journal entry were writings that both cried out to God knowing my own strength and ability would never get me through; that I desperately needed him. And there were entries thanking Him for giving me beauty to behold, joy to feel. This was an intense time in our lives. On this particular day on October 17, I was in awe at how devastating a life we’d been handed and simultaneously how full of joy we were. It didn’t match, but gratitude spilled out of me and so did these words…

Wanna know why I can’t be plucked from the garden of joy? When that hand of hate, jealousy, anger, bitterness or selfishness tries to pull me out, my roots cling tight, dive deep, wrap around the other roots growing deep. One tries to pull my flower out, but they really have to contend with a mass of roots that have intertwined below.

This web of deep strong roots is a result of God’s love. He is deep in us and when we face a storm on the surface- my leaves and petals taking a beating no flower could appear to endure- he holds tight to my roots, weaves them through the roots of other flowers. As the storm goes on, I don’t wilt. I don’t become uprooted. I firmly stand my ground in the soil of LIFE. And others around me too! God has weaved us together and we will stand strong, united and beautiful in the storm. We will add radiant colors in the gray skies, sweet smells as bitter rain comes down because our roots are

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It doesn’t matter what happens on the surface – deep is where our roots are pulling nutrients. HE is providing everything we need to stay up.

But… we do look beaten.

Save us, Lord!! You see our plight and you cling tight. I might feel this unimaginable storm, but you keep together the most important part of me – my soul. When I, a summer flower, bloom in the dead of frigid winter, people wonder, How?

My roots….

My roots are held deep in love and warmth, surviving and thriving in unthinkable conditions. You give life that doesn’t make sense. It appears impossible to live in such a way, a bloomed flower in dead winter. Only a good, redemptive God can give that kind of life. Thank you for deep roots in you, God. For clinging to me deep in my soul so I can survive. Thank you for winding my roots around such strong, wise roots of others. You have won and will continue to win in my heart. Nothing can hold you back. So please Lord, radiate strong from my being, through my broken stem and beaten leaves right to my new and beautiful bloom. Both simultaneously happening on one flower at the same time, demonstrating my broken stem as my weakness and a new bloom on a broken stem as proof that you take brokenness and make it SO beautiful. Thank you, Lord. I love you. Bloom beautiful in me despite my ugly broken stem.

And then I drew this picture next to my journal entry…. (disclaimer- I do not and have never claimed artistic talent. My art comes through my words, definitely not through drawing, but it’s part of the story so here we go… no judging! Ha!)

Journal drawing

This symbolism has stayed with me. As I have felt the faith community surround us, I picture our roots all held together. As I smile authentically, in a moment where perhaps fearful tears would make more sense, I picture my bloom. When I cry, curled in a ball on the floor unable to do one more thing that day, I picture my broken stem and beaten leaves. And then I remember my roots. And I get up and keep going.

“I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God. Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might as or think. Glory to him in the church and in Christ Jesus through all generations forever and ever. Amen.” Ephesians 3:16-21

To be continued…

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

Unlocking my heart

I bent down to put the tracks away and melted into a puddle right then and there. I’d put these tracks away many a night but they were only ever out as a result of a meltdown or a half-hazard dump as Ely made his way through the toy bins and boxes, not slowing down to actually play with anything, his only goal to seemingly make a big giant mess.

But tonight was different.

I wasn’t putting away tracks that were sprawled all over my living room, thrown in anger or carelessness. They were pieced together in a uniform track with bridges on either side, an engine and two cars connected and resting at the bottom of one of the bridges. It was as if I had jumped back about 3 and ½ years in time and Titus had just laid there playing with them for 45 minutes, insisting I sit across from him and take my turn on half of the tracks each time the train came around to greet me, always with his “choo choo” as he passed it off.

I put each track away exactly as I have for years, still held in the same worn-down cardboard box they came in from Ikea and I feel a Holy Moment approach. I can’t quite define what it is, but somewhere deep within, my Abba Father is unlocking a piece of my mama heart. I can’t hold any of it in so tears flow, but not just because of my deep missing, but for the deep rejoicing too.

You see, tonight, Ely was the one who had insisted the train tracks get set up. And that I sit across from him and take my turn each time he rolled the train down the bridge and around to me. He passed them off to me each time with a soft “choo choo”. I’d kept these tracks out in the living room long after no one was interested in playing with them because they held such a sweet and tender memory of time spent with Titus. They have always frustrated the heck out of Ely so I stopped trying to put them together and drawing him in to play with them; as much for me as him because I got tired of dodging flying wooden tracks when he would scream and throw them. (It does not feel good getting pelted by wooden Ikea train tracks… just saying.)

And then suddenly he wanted to play. And play. And play. I was on guard because…. well, flying tracks! But none came hurling toward my head. The train would get derailed and I hurried to help him to avoid any eruption, but none came as he calmly tried his best to place them back on the track. We played, with soft “choo choos”, taking turns, saying “wheeee!” down each of the bridges and giggled when the trains derailed. Bed time came and I reluctantly paused to move on for the night.

As I cleaned up around the house and found myself on that floor in the midst of that Holy Moment I acknowledge the past several months have sent my heart into lock down. I know this already so it’s not a new revelation to me, but I didn’t anticipate a set of train tracks to be the tool to begin unlocking it again.

I don’t have to always stand waiting for the ball to drop, for the next emergency to happen, to record and observe all that is going wrong so I’m not caught off guard.

I can softly choo choo and giggle when things get derailed. I can breathe in those moments and allow my heart to feel them. He reminded me that right here is beauty. Right here He- my friend and companion- my God is here. And He just gifted me. I’ll take that kind of Mother’s Day gift any day and am so thankful I didn’t miss it this time.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

Schlumpy, much?

I have been consumed lately with what my heart looks like. I am overly perceptive of how I react to things, mentally putting the information away into my file cabinet of “interesting” to go back through later. My reactions are wide and varied. My son fell off the bed a few weeks ago and hit his head straight on the tile floor. There was nothing I could’ve done in this particular incident to stop the fall except to prevent him from getting on the bed in the first place. (Which is now a rule… that gets broken repeatedly.) As I rushed to his side, surveyed the possible damage and held him close rocking him, I was alarmed at the reaction I was forced to shove down through deep breathing to maintain sanity. The anxiety, the sweating, the heart pounding, the hands shaking, the tears close to pouring over the rims of my eyelids… all of it came on in a matter of seconds without a choice. My brain was hijacked by the memories of previous traumatic experiences with my boys and their disease and the adrenaline fed the fear and high emotional reactions. It took a long time to calm back down and get back to a place where I didn’t feel so out of control.

Other times, it’s just little things that happen that make me reflect on what is truly going on deeper down inside me. I’ll be trying to have a conversation with someone and I simply just can’t. I can’t think of the right words, I can’t think of  a complete thought, I can’t process what they are saying. It’s awkward! And then there are the moments where I find myself defensive for absolutely no good reason. Still other moments, I actually feel a bit normal and able to function without having to think too hard about it, which believe it or not, throws me for a loop too.

On a daily basis, I seek to really live (meaning, I’m present) despite all the reminders around me of our pain and grief and missing. My emotions go from joy and creative passion to absolute dread and exhaustion. And in between is this numb sort of place where I do most of my living. I numbly work, I numbly exercise, I numbly take care of my family, I numbly interact… but wait, am I really living then? I call it “schlumpy”. Is that even a word? I guess it is now!

As I sit in my schlumpy-ness, I wonder at the state of my heart. Is it too hard? Is it becoming stone with thorns surrounding it? Is there beauty in there somewhere still waiting to be discovered or have I used all that up and am doomed to be ugly and broken for the rest of my life? What shape does my heart even hold? Like a broken nose that never grows back quite straight, I imagine my heart has been broken enough that it cannot look normal. Is it twisted and ugly or has it taken on a new refined, yet wild natural beauty? Maybe yes to both is the right answer. How can it not show the scars and the damage it has endured in this broken world? Yet there is a living being in that heart. It’s the Holy Spirit; God himself taking up residence in me. How He can find my heart to be a perfect home, I have no idea. But what I believe to be true is through the vines of the thorns that have grown around as a result of disappointment, hurt, selfishness, anger, loss, and pain, is a light. A pure, full spectrum color, dynamic light that beams around and through and inside out. It puts a spotlight on the brokenness, but not in the way I would expect it to. Prisms of color I have never seen before as a result of the light hitting cracks and awkward angles, bursts out. As those colors beam brightly, I see that growing amidst the thorns are actually beautiful roses. Without the light, I wouldn’t be able to see them, the darkness camouflaging them, trying to snip them off the vines with the scissors of nonexistence. But nonetheless, there they are. Growing. Beautiful. And I’m left to wonder what in the world to do with them. Am I uncomfortable with them being there? Those roses are a signal of life still at work. That death has not won and there is still life to be lived; missions to accomplish. Do I snip them off and say, forget it? Tending to these roses takes work… too much work. I would have to feed them, water them, provide them with sunshine and plenty of room to grow. It would require pruning and caring for new growth. And that is hard. Really hard. And right now, I’m schlumpy.

But I’m reminded, with a gentle prodding, that there will be a time to care for those roses, but there is also a time to sit back and allow the joy found in these beautiful buds to just be, simply because. Not because I did something to earn it, deserve it, or make it be, but simply because joy gets to exist in the presence of my God… the one who lives right inside of me. It’s one of his many characteristics, one of the deepest and most profound for me. Joy and schlumpy can actually exist together for a time, but then joy gets to win. Is it happiness? No. So what is joy in the mess of this heart of mine? What is it in the mess of this broken world and the complicated back and forth that is living in between broken reality and hope of redemption?

Joy is not a what. It is a “who”.

Who is my joy?

My joy is Jesus.

Jesus who loves beyond brokenness and faults, gives peace throughout this journey and redeems the in between and now, but also the future forever. Joy does not mean I carry a happy flag around. It means I look to Him for strength, for hope, for sustenance. It means his love reflects in and through me. And when life gets schlumpy and weary and I-just-can’t-do-this-anymore, I know my joy is not lost, because He is not lost. Jesus has never left my side and will always be there as my hope and joy no matter how dark this reality can get. Am I blind? Am I romanticizing this too much? How can Jesus really be enough when I feel the dark depths of depression and the wild ride of anxiety creep up on me?

I guess you’d have to know and believe the end of the story. The one where Jesus has conquered the very darkness that has settled in a dark cloud over our household… death.

Death… so separating, so lonely, leaving me to grieve the finality it is for all of us here on earth. Yet, only in this world is it final. Jesus has the final say. When he went to work and went to the cross and died for us, the very resurrection of his life showed the victory he holds over death and ALL things evil. His death and resurrection reflects across the brokenness of my heart with one big loud “I LOVE YOU” and “You are worth this sacrifice” and more, “You are worth this VICTORY”. Death, hate, pain, grief… all of it is redeemed – made right- through this great love story. All he asks is that we believe him! That we believe he really does love us. That he really has won. That this brokenness is redeemed and someday, we will never experience this pain again. For now God gifts us with hope and joy, also known as Jesus, in our shaded, fractured, damaged, despairing, gaping wounded hearts. Mission accepted… even in my schlumpy state, for my heart longs for all that you are, Jesus.

These are my hope and joy gifts…

 

 

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

I am a mom

What does mothers day hold for me exactly, as I live out bits of other moms’ greatest nightmares and fears? Honestly, mothers day for me has become a paradox. Confusing, too. The truth is that a part of me wants to pretend this day doesn’t happen and ignore everything in me that squeezes tight. The other part of me wants to climb to the tallest point and declare loudly my role as a mom. I am a mom!

I am a grieving mom.

I am a broken mom.

I am often a sleep deprived mom.

I am a grouchy mom.

I am a mom who battles against weight gain.

I am a mom who struggles to find balance.

I am a mom who snaps and yes, sometimes even yells. (I might even slam a door or two.)

I am a mom who grows impatient, feels insufficient and sometimes just wants to stay in bed.

I am a mom who has placed value in how well her kids are doing.

I am a mom who sometimes worries about what others are thinking as I parent in public. (And sometimes, I truly do not care.)

But… more importantly…

I am their mom. Titus and Ely’s.

 

 

I am a patient mom.

I am a caring mom.

I stretch myself to places I didn’t know I could go to be their mom.

I am an advocating mom.

I am a dedicated mom.

I am a mom who’s heart is torn apart and put back together in new ways as a result of being a mom… and it’s beautiful.

I labored for hours (and in Titus’s case – days) to be their mom, and that labor hasn’t stopped. It has just changed so I changed with it to be their mom.

I am the mom who kisses boo boos and apologizes when she gets angry.

I am a mom who searches for adventures for her boys to experience.

I am a mom who held her son through to his last breath and had the holy honor of ushering his spirit into the arms of Jesus.

I am a mom.

Moms,

We are patient, we are impatient. We are loving, we lash out in anger. We are teachers, advocates, coaches, therapists, fighters, and mediators for our children. We also are the first in line to show our kids how to screw up and treat others wrongly. And in turn, the first to show our children how apologies, forgiveness and grace operate in a broken world.

What a horrifying, painful, beautiful and fulfilling role to be placed in… mom.

It’s different for me this year, as Titus’s transition to Heaven as left a big hole in my role as mom. But as with everything in life these days, my heart approaches mothers day with grief and hope holding hands. My pain is held within God’s promise… a promise to redeem. 

To redeem not just my son’s disease, death and our separation as a result, but to redeem all the ugly parts of me, the places where I’ve failed as mom, wife, daughter and friend. And because of His promise, I enter my day knowing we experience redemption right here, right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to do this… write and tell our story. It’s a link in my redemption story.

So yes, I am a mom. So are many of you… maybe even in ways that don’t look “traditional”. You are still a mom. But even more importantly, you are a redeemed and loved daughter of our God –  a king who will one day make everything complete and right. In the meantime, He wraps us up in hope and joy filled blankets as we hold pain and grief, failure and loss in our hearts… because we are moms.

And you, my dear friend, are a beautiful mom.

Thanks for listening,

Bekah

No time like the present

I walked into my living room after laying Ely down for nap and it was a disaster. My couch was all torn apart, pillows on the floor, everything in every toy basket seemed to be emptied all over, bringing the risk factor of navigating my living room to somewhere between high danger and impending doom zones. Blankets were slimy, wet and smelly and a stench of “poop” hung in the air.

Normally, I huff, take a breath and begin the clean up process knowing that in an hour or two when the little guy gets up from his nap, this is going on repeat. I know, I know… I should ask my son to help with the clean-up. I mean, I do…. Sometimes. It’s just not his gift. Titus, my oldest, now he could clean! That kid would clean up after me! And if I put something in the wrong place, he’d correct it. It didn’t take much to convince him to clean up. Ely, well… his gifting is to destroy things in Guinness Book of World Record fashion. Don’t get me wrong. I still try to instill these housekeeping values in him and encourage him to help mommy “ea up” as he says it. But there are days that takes more energy than the actual clean-up process itself. So today, I walked into this catastrophe lone soldier style. I took a look around to survey the damage and assess how long this would take. Those “nap minutes” are precious to me.

In my pause to look, I felt something well up inside me. Was that really what I think it was? Yep, thankfulness. Maybe it was because just a few hours ago, I was reminded yet again how little we are really guaranteed in this life and how dependent I’ve become on the hope and grace of Christ to be my enough. A text had come through on my phone from my dear friend who has begun the end of life stage with her sweet 6-year-old son, navigating painful, horrible and precious moments. I was rocked back on my heels of emotions as I replayed that very stage I just walked through with my 6-year-old son Titus, just a short 6 months ago. The disease ripping her son from her arms and requiring a far too early goodbye wreaked havoc in my household as well and we are learning to live in this place of pain and missing, yet holding on to the hope of redemption, wholeness and the promise to see him again someday soon.

“How long, Lord?” I asked out loud staring at the mess. “How long do I get to clean this up day after day?” I miss so much the mess Titus used to make. Yes, he helped clean up so that made it nicer, but really…. The dinosaurs meeting up with the trains on our ottoman, the cars lined up neatly in a row all facing the same direction ready to play out whatever imaginary adventure he had prepared in his mind. Duplos… everywhere. The bowl of cereal there to snack on that wound up getting crushed into the rug more often than not (oh wait… that still happens). Those moments with Titus are now just a memory and gosh, I miss them. So, I stared at the couch cushions resting haphazardly on the floor, the blanket that had been sucked on leaving sopping wet corners to hang. The stuffed animals sprawled everywhere, the dinosaurs hiding beneath the blankets, waiting for me to step on one of their spikes, and the other odds and ends that seemed so random. I’m not sure they even had a purpose for being out except as collateral damage in the 3-year old’s wake.

I stood up on the aforementioned ottoman and snapped a couple pictures. Yes, I want to remember this. My 3-year-old, Ely, isn’t guaranteed a long life either. I mean, who is really, but most of us expect it. But Ely is plagued with the same fatal disease that took his big brother at the age of 6 years old. And I know I’m given a gift because I can’t afford to take my days for granted; to huff and puff about cleaning up toys and messes. I embrace it because it is my son’s presence. He’s living and breathing here in my life right now and I don’t want to miss that. I would never wish this pain on any other mama. Ever. But I do hope and pray that my story helps others see the gifts in their lives that are wrapped up as inconveniences, frustrations, and unexpected stops. I don’t want to give anyone a guilt trip. I want to provide an avenue for a perspective shift. I almost sit down among the mess and let it be. But I don’t. I clean it up and every breath breathed holds a prayer for both my boys, for my husband, for me, for my friend. Such fragility, this life and yet, so vibrant that I can feel His spirit moving in me allowing me to glimpse His kingdom in the midst of such mundane things. Joy carries my soul, hope lifts it, and grace allows me to embrace. May we all be stirred in such places as our living room, among stinky, slimy blankets and sharp weapons disguised as children’s toys.

Thanks for listening…

Bekah

The escape plan

I was sitting at a red light so I quickly clicked on my notifications to see what I might be missing or need to know. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the light turn green so I took my foot off the brake to slowly roll forward while I clicked my phone off and put it away. After all, I don’t text and drive, don’t ya know. Only when I’m at a red light. “Whoooop Whooop” rang in my ear, a quick blip of a siren. I looked in my rear-view mirror and realized to my dismay, it was intended for me. I sighed and my shoulders slumped as I pressed on the gas, turned through the light and pulled over noting the time. Yep, my son will be late to school today. And then began the pleasant conversation one has with a cop after being pulled over. You know, the one where he asks what business you had on your phone that you needed to do it while behind the wheel of a vehicle in drive. Ugh. Nothing important and it was just plain stupid. And I pulled away with an extra piece of paper when we were done. No tears spilled, although they were close, but my ego took a big hit. All day I’ve been contemplating this experience that started off this fine, sunny, beautiful Thursday. I dropped Ely off at school, jumped back in the car (feeling a bit grouchy about it all) and drove home. I pull up to a red light. I sit there for a moment. Geez, it’s quiet. Automatically my hand reaches for my phone! Like it seriously did it all by itself! I caught myself just before turning it on and threw it back in my bag. What the heck, Bekah?!

I had to drive that same exact trek 6 times today. Once to school and back for drop off. Then to school and back for pick up. Then to Ely’s occupational therapy and back (which is just down the road from his school). You’d better believe my phone stayed put inside my purse, but my mind went crazy. I made a couple phone calls on one of the trips (using hands free bluetooth of course!), the others I would turn on the radio. And I started to worry about my inability to sit in the quiet. The quiet can be a little bit scary for me. The undistracted can be an emotional abyss that looks dark and looming. So I look for an escape plan. One that takes me someplace artificial so I don’t have to deal in the real and vulnerable. And it’s become a bit obsessive. It doesn’t always look like Facebook, texts or phone calls. It could be a fictional book. Or food. Or TV. We all have our list.

In all my driving today, on my final trip home, it hit me. I’ve been looking for an escape plan through all this because my mind is pleading for a break. It’s begging to run from pain. My nervous system is operating at maximum sensitivity levels and it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. This is my daily struggle. The one where I’ve become really good at pushing back the emotions because they might make me or someone else uncomfortable. Choosing the superficial and surface escape route is much easier. Oh how I grow tired of it. Even when I’m caught up in the act of distraction, my heart grows weary of it and yet I don’t stop. What might be on the other side if I do?

It’s the season of lent. The season where we pull back, we sacrifice, we take away, we re-evaluate, we pray more, we become aware of ourselves and our need for God. We stop turning to our own escape plans and turn our full attention and focus on THE escape plan. The one where God sent his son Jesus to this earth to sacrifice his life in order to save ours. That escape plan.

So what will I find on the other side of distraction and faulty escape plans?

I will find a God who heals. And, yes, while I believe God can heal physically, well, the truth is, that hasn’t been my personal experience. I’ve watched so much death happen. Even right here in my living room. But I have to be a person who is willing to remember! Remember how He has carried and continues to carry me through. To remember the fullness of life experienced right smack in the middle of the most broken of times. To allow the healing work he is doing in me to sink into my soul and be a healing balm to my wounds… ones that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

My eyes tear up when I see another family with needs like our own. And that distraction tugs. The uncomfortable sensor goes off like a siren! But I want to say, so what? That reaction is God’s heart in me. Let it be.

I feel the jerk of my heart beating like it’s reminding me how very alive I am and how gone from this earth my son is. There is that sensor! Distract! Distract! But I want to say, so what? That is a momma’s heart, each heartbeat is a heart-bleed because I loved and still love big. But instead of clotting off that heart-bleed with distraction, I must let it run. For it is his blood that first ran to give us freedom in His love and grace. It is his broken body that made us whole. And it is my broken heart, bleeding all red and love that is finding healing.

My healing doesn’t look pretty. You should hear me in my therapy sessions when I start crying. I choke things out, sometimes my breath comes into my lungs super constricted and wheezy. But I am reminded that in Jesus’s most broken state, all things were made new and He was beautiful. He did not distract from His mission. A mission to rescue his most dearly beloved… you and me.

So…

I’m going to put down the phone, yes even at red lights. I’m going to get comfortable with silence. I’m going to cry when I feel like crying. I’m going to hug someone when I feel like they need it. I’m going to walk into brokenness knowing I’ll want to run. And I’ll run to Him.  And I know I’ll be able to do it because it is HIS strength in me, reminding me that all is not lost or broken. And in fact, redemption is here and it is for all. Because that was His ultimate escape plan for us. 

Thanks for listening…

Bekah