Floating on

Soon I will not have a class of students to teach how literature is God's word in story forms. I won't be able to talk about Northrup Fry's research; I won't be able to ooh and aah with students over Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne Elliott; or do choral reading of Lewis Carroll: or write a script in line with Ambrose Bierce's story about the horse&rider falling from the sky; or try to open students' minds away from narrow minded judgmentalism or the mystery of God.

I am sad, but I must move on. The river floats, and I'm getting on the barge. I hope it is waterproof. I hope that it takes me to just as delightful places. I hope it isn't an escape from low pay and lots of work. I pray I can serve God with as much fulfillment as the time after a really stimulating class. Like today with attentive students, listening to some of my cumulative knowledge, wisdom, and love for each one of them.

Geometrics

Today, I am feeling the confines. I sit on my back porch, and a neighboring deck has a person on it looking at me. I go inside and the television is on. I sit in the garage on the steps, and the clock ticks above me as I look out at the circle. I think about the bicyclist out there who is breezing through air away from their cul-de-sac, home, spiriting through quickly and escaping for awhile. I think of my friend out on the river, paddling, paddling, seeing the otters dive in and make a little splash while the rest of us sleep in our rectangular beds or sit outside in our lot. She is out there, and it shows on her face when she must be with the rest of us, in our confines and hers. Today, we play music with her, and I am glad because this music breaks down the confines until another one erects itself around it again.

When I sat on the back step, I remembered more times of sitting there thinking of getting away but unable to know where to go and what to do. I think this is more related to the eternal (or is that a pathetic acceptance of what isn't?). But, truly, I think we all struggle with being content. I just wish the neighbor wouldn't be there looking at me. I just wish that I had a blanket, and I was on my parent's farm, and I found a tree to sit under and let everything bleed into one full pulsating sad strain before a mosquito or an ant or a spider or a snake made me realize the comforts of home. I just wish. I just wish. I just wish for the culmination of Jesus or good music or an outdoor cafe with someone who I had no resentment with whatsoever. I guess that would be Jesus, after awhile, after we cleared some air, and took a deep drink together.

Bloomin' lessons

Mine and son's little peach tree is blooming, but I have allergies and cannot go outside this beautiful season. I have been spoiled in the past -- being allowed to traverse far and wide. I remember as a child crawling through downed trees in with their snakes, ticks, spiders, and upset possums. Yet they weren't really a danger -- I was able to make my "house" without their encroaching. Except those danged ticks in the right time of season. I must make allowance for their unfortunate aggression, those danged ticks.

But, today, I can't linger close to a blossom for fear of rapid fire results -- pollen switching my eyes and nose. So, here I sit, unable. My favorite season of the year sticks its tongue out at me through my window and over my big conglomerated nose.

However, I will never, ever, ever again think that my husband is a wimp during ragweed season.

I sit in humility, and I thank God for lessons which corrects my ignorance and extends my compassion to others.

(But, how long will I need to learn?)

Forsythia Sparks

In the moment:

the forsythia is trying to emit sparks;

the cats are lounging on cushions;

the birds sing, seeking companions;

moisture hangs in a cloud.


Early Spring, and we are still living. Yesterday, I went to a man's memorial in which two governors attended as they recalled the man who was a living, compassionate, good man but was taken by violent means.

I remember Tom as one who would smile and say hello to me, or anyone who felt inferior to his height and to most people in general. When you feel insignificant, the people who don't have to, but do, speak or smile can make a huge impact. That's how I felt with Tom as most people did. He was humble and kind.

And, his wife, an old friend of mine. Full of strong grace and beauty. Interviewed by Anderson Cooper, she talked about when darkness overtakes the godly (a scriptural reference) and how devastating that is. Yet, she chooses life over death, which means eventual forgiveness and a conscious choice to be the bride of someone who loved her rather than the widow of a murdered man.

Yes, questions can swirl, but this amazing example can help steady us as it steadies them.

Thankful for the forsythia today as it shows a spark of a fuller future flame which Tom enjoys in most abundant Life.  Amen.

Helicopter pilot

Landing spots. Perhaps our autism kids are helicopter pilots, especially those with the "comorbid" (and surely there's not a more lovely word in the English language!) condition of ADHD.

I keep trying to visualize a place, a shelter with a roof and all, but maybe I'm thinking of the wrong  thing. Maybe our kids are helicopter pilots.

My son's landing was the local recreation center for a job lasting ten months. He somehow brought his helicopter down (or maybe God was in the controls or a persistent mom), but his flight vehicle came down and blew some grass and some rabbit ears as he settled on ground. And, he jumped out, and for awhile, there was a man there who welcomed him in. He was a man who could have shot him down from the sky, but he didn't.

And, my son got used to the earth and its smells. Other inhabitants greeted him, "Hello!" and he smiled a little smile and found an occupation of pulling weeds and wiping down dirty plateaus. Every single day, he would show up, having dropped earth pebbles to find his way since he couldn't look down from on high any more. But, he did it and consistently too and on his own which was really an accomplishment! He wondered if he could become settled down away from flight, although he loved the sky, but it had its moments when the stars and the clouds were beautiful but cold&remote.

However, he started forgetting a few things because planet life was not the same as atmosphere life. And several times the man saw him and he shook his head. On the surface of earth life, we must behave as if we will always be able to stay. We must be and do like those without wings; we must be like the industry of the ants and must resist imitating the whimsy of the mosquito. Someone else on the ground told on him for being a mosquito when really he was in fact a helicopter pilot all along. Maybe a royal helicopter pilot unknown.

So the man finally had enough and showed him to the landing spot. Rather, he had someone else show him there because he was too preoccupied with his ants. And, when my son got to his helicopter, he knew well enough that he would lift up, look down, and wave goodbye because after all as a helicopter pilot one becomes closer to the high, the wide, the deep, and the long vista which no one else was able to love experience or see.

Therefore, flight, up high, beautiful skies, the real life. Until perhaps one day, a new landing spot is perceived. Helicopter pilots always need to refuel and reprieve. They always want to meet someone who knows enough to care about the pilot who has come floating in by the air.

So, late at night, here's wishing and praying my helicopter pilot can be happy in both states, and, for me, I am going to resist defining the all elusive, the all frustrating, the entirely limited earthly view of  "Place."

Good night.

Bad news of today

It is Good Friday, and we are home. Our eyes should be upon the cost of the cross today. The suffering of Jesus. All that He carried for us as he showed up on the hill, plagued by sins, sickened by incriminations, spat upon, beaten, split open. The ugliness of the world festering upon his mind and skin.

In today's world, we push an icon and news of the world enlarges quickly into print and into an imprint upon our psyche. The news generators have quickly realized that the gruesome news gets more "hits." As a steady diet, we take in stories about sexual abuse, murder, depravity of all kinds. For me, I feel sympathy and disdain as I, on some emotional level, react to what I am reading. I carry with me afterwards more fear of the world, of the dangers of people, of the hopelessness of being human. I must get something out of it, as I continue to read and make myself aware. However, I am aware too that this is an unhealthy concentration, and I'm following a trail of human blood that the news sources have laid out, having enough material to do so.

Therefore, when I think of the crucifixtion of Christ, I can relate to it well enough. Evil overtakes good. Good is victimized. Good is mocked. Good falls. Good dies. But, the story is not one of senselessness. Within this story, a willing martyrdom means that forevermore all the bad news of the world has another twist -- Christ knows that we desperately need a way out of this mess. Jesus knew that this toddler boy would be starved by his mother. He knew that this young girl would be raped by ten men. He knew that this good upstanding Christian man would be shot when opening his door to an ex-prisoner.

He knows of the world's suffering, and he displays kindness through his willingness to die, miserably, upon the cross for those who suffer and, even, for those who shell out violence. We are given a choice to choose to translate the world's violence through the writing of the cross. Through Jesus' outstretched body language. Through the arms that holds the dearness of innocence, the one who cries, all of the wailing of the world.

Oh, Jesus, let us be grateful for the escape you offer, and help us to penetrate the reality you offer on this good, good Friday in which you overcame our evil.

Ark roads

We drove towards the trees of eastern Texas, stopping at Boston for McDonalds. Then, my husband drove across the border and found the little road that led up and over, straight ahead and around a corner, to Arden Cemetery, in Arden, Arkansas. Most of the people in Arden were the dead ones.

The cemetery sat around the area where his dad had run around with his eight siblings, all barefoot, all poor, destined to run away or die, or live until they were 90.  We stomped around the mounds, peering at names, subtracting dates for age, noting the veterans, until we found them clustered to the front side. The judge, his wife, their children. My husband pointed down, explaining family relationship to our son who came from them. If they had not lived, we would not have existed to stop.

Our little snap of time in the reality of lineage and common folks quickly ended, and we left, driving towards our own time-slip existence, a bit more aware, yet always in the fog of really knowing or remembering.

We drove upwards into Arkansas, going through Paris. We went by a trailer house with a shack in front of it. Big black spraypainted letters announced:  "Sorry I'm too poor to be a Republican." Oh you funny hillbillies. Goodbye. I'm leaving with a smile to my own existence, my own slip in time, thank you for a moment. Best wishes with yours. I hope you have a dog beside you in your easy chair. I hope you benefit from Obamacare.

Then, we finally found Clarksville. We found the university for a visit. We found the center for our visit tomorrow. I laughed at the irony of the words blazed across the center's doorway:  Center for Special Learning. Special is the word detested most by my son.

It's almost bedtime in the hotel, which those in the cemetery do not have to worry about. Our lives rush on, and we must clink forwards into our own meaning, engrave our own time between, believe we have futures always ahead. This is life. We have a road to follow and a hope to breeze ahead of us.

So, thank you, Arkansas, for your straight and windy roads today. Many views for many thoughts as life moves on.

Planet Plano

Now we are in a downtown Dallas, waiting for a Mavericks / L.A.Clippers game.  A birthday gift for my husband.

It has been a happy day in Texas. The wait in Plano panned out.  The boy likes the place. It could possibly be The Place! It  fits him in many ways:  no college classes required, just straight-up, high-tech training.  We met three other computer nP students who attested that they liked it there. These autistic young adults are so cool.  I loved them all.  And, I loved the leaders.

Guess what?  They are Christians. I think this sealed the deal for all of us once we talked about our faith openly. Maybe God does make some things clear. Even my reluctant-to-change husband was swayed. The son said he could envision living and working there. He could get an apartment close by maybe with a roommate. We are all imagining that this is possible.

Afterwards, we ate at one of the myriad restaurants (we had even shopped earlier). Perhaps Plano is the best place on the planet for my son. And, not a bad place for the parents to while away the time and spend some well-placed money.

We shall see.

Placed in Plano

I see a big American flag from my window; it's puncturing the flat landscape where cars dart across my La Quinta window view. We have been bored in Plano, Texas for a couple of days now and wonder, "What do these folks do for fun?"

Yesterday, I did see an old friend (which was fun), and she said that people in Plano shop and eat. All the full parking lots corraborated her story. Could we become shoppers and eaters in Plano, Texas? Could we find spiritual or cultural depth here amongst its people? Probably. But from the view of a hotel fourth floor room, one wonders (especially when there is nothing exciting to do or see or climb).

Today, we go to nonPareil Institute, a place for kids on the spectrum. A place. Those are huge words. Words that streak in the dawn, in a petal, in a mansion, a shack, a clod, an air current -- everywhere there is a place. But, for my son, where? Yes, with us. But, then, where? Elusive, appearing, wavering.

nonPareil became known through master Google, and I followed up, called, and after months and interviews later, we meet the people today. We will see if my son can develop computer skills within the care of these folks (if they accept him, and us them). Can he go beyond what seems a life of very menial work? Can he develop apps, games, etc?  A place, a place.

But, then we might have to send him to Plano, or we might need to become Plano-ites. Could my husband and I have similar minds to make the move, or will we always hold one another back (in the right place, in the wrong place)?

We have five or six hours before meeting the people. What shall we do in Plano? It's 34 degrees. There's always South Fork, a tv house. I think there's a trail somewhere. Seems like we're waiting for La Quinta to expel us into the right decision, and, perhaps, when we empty out, we'll know. But, I doubt it. Sometimes, many times, we move through this world darkly.

However, God's hand is in ours no matter our decisions, going with us everywhere. We choose, win or lose, and He is there. Here in Plano, Texas, He is here, and, although we don't perceive his knowledge of what to do yet (and I don't know if we'll be smart or spiritual enough to discern), He is here, even if we're shopping and eating and searching for Place here in Plano.

Should I in 2012

Should I in 2012?

Write the usual Christmas poem?

All within me doesn’t want to express

The fragments and make them a whole

Infant which carries the world’s weight.

Much has raveled out: the church,

The massacres, the cousin who is

Suffering in another county.

I can stay upstairs and read my book

Of essays; I can fix my Christmas eve

Chicken; I can look forward to travel.

But still the hush creeps into me, and

I think of the baby who changed

Everything and who introduced a

Tear into this universal shroud which

Speaks death all day long and maybe

Tomorrow.  The baby slit a hole

For us to escape and for us to consider

A Love that we’ve never known. A

Purported Love for even me.

While others are enraptured over

The true belief in this, I must still

Be quiet. I must still go to the “stable”

And look and stare. I must put all

Peripherals in a drawer, and I must

Bow and see in order to worship and believe.

And so I sit, typing out a nativity re-enactment

But one in which the baby reaches out,

Through  time-encasement, through historical

Decay, through modern disillusionment, His

Little human finger, sparked with love, to me.

In 2012, despite all, I know the touch and choose belief.

TWW

swivel chair spin

When I hear the garage door
open, I feel the impulse to 
jump up and begin cleaning, 
throw away all artistic pursuits, 
black out the dancing
gyration show, and look up
with a smile (or a
complaint).

~~~~~

My son sits on the swivel
chair spinning, spinning like
so many swivel chairs before
when the doctor knocks
and sticks out his/her
hand, and the room rights
itself and greets
the inevitable.

~~~~

My friend dresses with
flair, has hair that
curls, has fine teeth,
and welcomes with
her arms in reach.
All around her, art
revolves around the
gallery wall, and she
blends, represents,
portrays the outward grace
which sometimes clashes
with the awful art displayed.

~~~~~~

I have essays to grade
and so I turn to poetry
where organization and thesis
correction aren't allowed
up in the treehouse
where I've kicked the
ladder down.

~~~~~

And so the good doctor sat
with a gentle smile,
with a smile used at home
with a smile that went
to the high and low,
with a smile that drew
a picture graph,
with a smile which
wanted to help, if only
it had something it
knew how to do.

Peeing on both poles

I'm back after a tearful
threat at a table full of
teachers looking concerned,
not knowing what to do
with my son who they've
described in black and white
lines upon official paper.
I'm reminded of the old
well room attached to
my rundown childhood home.
The door was helplessly ajar
and the cats would find all
kinds of curl places in the
dark, wet, cool, trashed-out
place where they were
safe from storms and people.
~~

I have a secret in my purse.
It is an object
which I feel guilt about
because I have already
given so much money away
this year and now
I am encumbered more.
However,
with this object we will
have a moment and his
eyes will widen and
before he thinks about
his wife being in debt, he
will only think of how much
he is loved.

~~~~~

When I go to the mall with
my daughter, no thing is simple.
So many unspoken words,
hopeful intentions,
repressed feelings accompany
our rack search. In the sock
department in JC Penney, I
bizarrely blurt out bits about
God and our prayers for her.
She says her usual, "Hmmmm"
and picks up a really cute
pair of discounted tights.

~~~~~~

Moses, the black lab version,
is one of my running partners,
but he only greets me after
he has sniffed and peed
on both poles.

The pants just stink

The coffee pot creaks,
the Bible app reads.
My cats are where they
want to be. An expectant
morning quiets the
soon rush sounds and
we sit together once more.
I show my age but morning's
face is seamless and fresh,
but she will be thrown down
as noon takes her life,
while I will be made-up
and alive.


~~

And the students are captured
away from their beds
where late nights up trapped.
And now they're caught speaking
of chivalry and Chaucer,
courtly love and confession
in chatterly groups of four,
and I'm happy that in America
freedom isn't entirely
widespread.

~~~

You sit down in the highback chair
if a cat isn't there first. And you
look down the fretboard to your
fingertips. You see what they do and
how they move. You see that they can
make sound. You see that you are
capable of something in this big
uncontrollable world, and you look
up at your lesson teacher.

~~~

If I could bottle up all of the Old
Testament wrath, all the swinging ass'
bones, all the conquering nations'
drumrolls, all the slews and all the
slays into a pretty black bottle, I would
have hurled it today at the heads
of the three students
who turned and laughed at my son.

~~~

I have a black pair of jeans
which smell.
I've washed and washed
until they're faded out, but
still the dye is a stench.
If I were not so modest, I
would ask someone, somewhere,
"What do you do when your
pants just stink?"

Water&Light

Today, I was reminded of my "Water & Light" notepad book, compliments of the City Utilities. I use it to jot down moments and the layers of meanings in so much. That's life. Here are a few:


The white horse picture of the Apocalypse rears above my
computer reminding me of Grandma's wall. The flashlight-beaming
eyes of the rider scoped the room where a furtive 13 year old girl, who
argued with her sister, even to this day, squirmed. Grandma Faye knew
the Holy Spirit convicted. And she would watch me with a smile
because I looked cute in my warfare agony.

~~~~

My feet are on an Oriental rug,
and "Ode to Joy" is being played
on the piano. The light fully brightens
and forges a paper shadow which right
sashays and quickly skips back to the left.
A lovely piano instructor friend counts
time and smiles back at me regarding
my son's  musical impetuousness. Today
he's striving and ordering and being a
bit shadowy on a page. However, he's
a teen, and I'm being too
observant.

~~~~

I called upon my son and he
disappeared into the hallway for
the ritual bathroom break. As I
taught, he stayed away, and I imagined
him circulating various rooms in
the cavernous church finding another
lonesome piano needing just one
plunk to make its day.

~~~~

I could have poured out
a thousand lessons,
a million verses,
a score of aphoristic advice,
however, we sat and drank lattes,
my experiential ex-student and I,
and then vistied art galleries.
She made plans to buy a repulsive bug
necklace which didn't concern me.

~~~

St. John's Hospital -- all roads lead here.
The Bible verses on the wall reassures;
the XL nun portraitures on the wall
overwhelm; the cream sparkled tile
leads you on and down and around until
you appear in the doorway of the
designated room full of hope
that your mother is eating her
rolled-tray morning meal.

Working, waiting, hearing

Lapsing in the blogging journal area, I see! But, this morning another thirst for words, focus, figuring things out grabbed me, and here I am.

Right now, I'm sitting in a quiet kitchen, except for a clock's sound and an occasional cat-licking. My husband would know how keen my ears are, how painfully sensorified I am. And, I just heard my daughter's text from my phone in the back bathroom . . . she is upset at the local news for charging for online reads. I'm smiling. She called them her favorite adjective: "Stupid!" Ah, the teen years still surface.

Spiritually, things are alright. Today, I feel disorderd, yet don't we ride our emotions in order to arrive in a safe pasture one day? Riding.

I am now working with one student in my educational therapy business. He is autistic and nonverbal, yet inside he is brilliant. However, it's difficult for him to answer my questions like describing his dog or telling me about his morning. He echoes. He can write fairly well. Something is blocking -- auditory, cognitive. I look at him, a nice young good-looking 20 year old, and I think, "If only this didn't happen to him!" If only he could communicate his feelings to his mother, if only he could be running around with guys his own age, if only he could navigate directions on his own. However, he can't, and I still rail the "If only's" inside, just like his mother does. Well, much much less than she does in proportion.  She has reported that the therapy has really helped him already, though. I go to bed wondering how I can help unlock his barriers. I pray for him. I sleep on it. Yet, I know he is a blessed child of God as he is too. May I continually acknowledge God's stamp of approval on him. May I acknowledge his joys in life and his abilities. Thank you, God, for this opportunity to work with him. And, for this student and for the others to come:

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
and in his word I put my hope. (Psalm 130:5 NIV)

Political gladness instead of madness

Be glad, earth and sky!

Roar, sea, and every creature in you;
 be glad, fields, and everything in you!

The trees in the woods will shout for joy
 when the LORD comes to rule the earth.

He will rule the peoples of the world

with justice and fairness. (Psalm 96:11-13 GNT)

A friend last night told me that I don't like contention, particularly political contention. She didn't think I would enjoy a political discussion over dinner, which I might have been invited to if I enjoyed contention.

On one hand, she's right. All the dirt hurling back and forth, back and forth, is ugly. Why dwell in mud when you can operate in a pasture? Yet, I know that we need to have people who are willing to enter into the political messhall so that they can get attention by throwing food too. If they fight for the good, then the fight is necessary. However . . .

But, what I didn't tell my friend (I wasn't fast enough in my mind which is another reason why I don't like politics!) is the sentiment of the above verses. All politics will disappoint, be ugly, be villainous; no ruler, be it Obama or Romney, will make people happy. Our governmental systems can aim for justice and fairness, but they will be off the mark continually due to our human nature. Why do we put our confidence in man and not trust in the Lord? Why do we get ugly as Christians by assuming that a man can save our nation? Why do we spew hatred and violence which is often the result of political contention whether we aim for this or not? A political discussion can only be moderated if we choose to be moderate about both sides -- and, that is so rare. We put our interests first over unity.

Politics will always divide. Yet, this is the world we live in. If one feels called to enter into the political contentiousness, I hope one can do so with the above verses in mind, the eternal perspective, that God will ultimately be in control. Our political contributions will melt away. He will rise up no matter the debate and only He will rule "with justice and fairness" for which everything will be glad instead of being mad.

Fruit seed to finales

Trusting in the Fruits We belong to a generation that wants to see the results of our work.  We want to be productive and see with our own eyes what we have made.  But that is not the way of God's Kingdom.  Often our witness for God does not lead to tangible results.  Jesus himself died as a failure on a cross.  There was no success there to be proud of.  Still, the fruitfulness of Jesus' life is beyond any human measure.  As faithful witnesses of Jesus we have to trust that our lives too will be fruitful, even though we cannot see their fruit.  The fruit of our lives may be visible only to those who live after us. What is important is how well we love.  God will make our love fruitful, whether we see that fruitfulness or not.    The above is from the wise Henri Nouwen; his passage relates quite well to my feeling in last post, and, I'm sure, all of ours as we struggle with impatience.  However, yesterday, I tasted immediate fruit. Quite enjoyable. I sat at a Compassion International table all day, waiting for sponsors to get that soul tap. I waited, smiling and talking to an old man about tomatoes (really listening to a man about his tomatoes). I didn't feel uncomfortable or hurried. And, it was delightful to use my experience with CI to talk to others and answer their questions. For once, I was immediately well-suited to a job! That doesn't happen very often! At the end of the day, eight (possibly nine) sponsors, women, came forward and around the world, children will be encouraged in daily and spiritual life. Thank you, God, for letting me be there at the time these fruits were gathered. I did nothing but show up to a work already started. More fruits will follow for these children and sponsors.  Thank you, Lord, for fruits and the entire process from seed to reap to pie to sustenance. Amen.

August earliness

"In this day's labors or trials say, "The LORD God will help me." Go forth boldly. Set your face like a flint and resolve that no faintness or shamefacedness shall come near you. If God helps, who can hinder? If you are sure of omnipotent aid, what can be too heavy for you? Begin the day joyously, and let no shade of doubt come between thee and the eternal sunshine."

Charles Spurgeon admonishes so early in the morning as I wake up in a distraught August state.

I learned last night that the board at my school is not taking any action to help struggling learners. They received a message to "be in the Lord" this season without needing to change anything. But, their students still attend, so there's no reason for rush (a skeptical outlook). I heard last night a fellow, trusted colleague compare us to autistic people as we pray erroneously to God -- in stilted language with barriers (others laughed). I reacted emotionally, in front of a group.

I am shamefaced and disappointed, feeling like a failure. Charles Spurgeon reminds me, as an individual with her mission pitted against a group and their mission, that God will help. I am carrying too much, feeling like it's all my load. I'm supposed to quit clutching and avoid grief, skepticism, unforgiveness -- bad fruit not reflecting a solid trust.

Father, let me rest in Your knowledge without being deterred from the path you have set me on. Allow me to walk in peace, knowing you are with me and will help me, even in the delays and the disruptions and the rejections. Help me to have the guidance of your Holy Spirit which comforts me even in distress. Help me not to react in dismay which doesn't account for the hope in you. Help those struggling children find help. I know you care and that you want good action from those responsible. Thank you that I can hand off to you when I am incapable. Amen.

Prayers, not so easy

"We are not here to prove that God answers prayer, but to be living trophies of God’s grace . . . . When prayer seems to be unanswered, beware of trying to place the blame on someone else. That is always a trap of Satan. When you seem to have no answer, there is always a reason— God uses these times to give you deep personal instruction, and it is not for anyone else but you." Oswald Chamber

Prayers. Yesterday, I begged for my son, for all kids with developmental disabilities. I prayed for coverage, for full force grace duing this school year, for a break, for goodness, for kind people. Mid-way through my prayer I thought, "What if my prayer goes unanswered like many have seemed to before? Can my faith handle the disappointment of feeling ignored, feeling like God doesn't involve, feeling alone in it all, watching my son sputter, watching the tide roll over him?" So, I stopped begging and prayed for the grace to be able to let my son learn lessons even if the situtation was difficult on him. I prayed that my son could love God and keep on going, being faith adaptable and not so dependent upon answered prayers that life magically smooths itself. We still live in this rumpled, rumbling life. There will be issues. After I prayed that, I continued begging again.

However, I like what Chambers says above =>  "We are not here to prove that God answers prayer, but to be living trophies of God's grace. . . .  When you seem to have no answer, there is always a reason."

Yesterday at church, our pastor said that there's one side of the ledger in which we keep reasons, grievances, lists of times and places where God doesn't seem active or alive. The shootings, the sicknesses, the pain, the seemingly unanswered prayers. However, there is another side of the ledger to acknowledge -- one that shows His loving activity in the small things, in the help that comes, the smile that is given, the things that align to truly give you encouragement or aid, the gentle movement towards a fuller Christ life in which you become freer from certain strongholds.

Acknowledgement -- a theme. Grace can be stared at and mirrored.

Amen.

Leaning and believing

O Lord of hosts, blessed (happy, fortunate, to be envied) is
                the man who trusts in You [leaning and believing on You, committing all and
                confidently looking to You, and that without fear or misgiving]! (Psalm 84:12 AMP)

A good verse for an early morning fearfest when a teacher frets about her oversized class, and lack of compensatory pay. When mothers talk about their sons' growth all week, and again, I look upward and ask, "Why not my son? Why one more big thing on him?" When I start a business, and I worry about my one client and the clients who will come. Will I know enough? Will they come? Will I help the nonverbal young man turn a corner? Who else should I serve? Why doesn't my school pick up this mission to help struggling learners? My mind and heart are in a knot, around and around it goes, tightening.

The above verse does not apply right now. But, it should. But, how? How does a person trust in God, leaning and believing, committing all in confidence without fear or misgiving? There are battles to be fought, steep grades to go up, huge challenges of worry and action.

"Looking to You" perhaps is the answer. "Looking to God." Not looking at the fear, trusting God in the hard stuff, in the battles, in the advocacy, in the shadows, in the Light. Help me to do so, O God!  Thank you for the blessings, but the long nights are tough. May perspective be illuminated and good choices made. Amen.