Three years ago today, my feet were caked with the red dirt of Tanzania. On May 7, 2012, I wrote this post and it is still, to this day, my most shared post. It’s been read thousands of times over the last three years, and of course it has because the message is universal.
People need Hope. They crave and long to know that Hope is alive, and indeed it really is.
Hope is Slow may be the most important blog post I will ever write. This is the message that carried me through the terminated adoption of 2013. It is the message that carried us through the cancer diagnosis of 2014. And it carries us now in 2015, with the unique and pressing challenges of our present.
Hope is Slow. But it is alive.
I’m thankful for the reminder today.
***
As we ambled back up the rutted dirt path it finally happened. I knew the emotions would take over at some point, but I honestly didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed my second day here. On both sides, children scrambled about watching us with bold curiosity.
“How do you handle seeing this all the time?” I asked Shaun as we stepped gingerly over a stream of muddy water flowing through the red soil. My throat burned and eyes watered as the images of the family we just visited ran through my mind. It wasn’t the condition of their home that left me so affected, though the small, concrete structure that housed two adults and nine children did leave me a bit shocked.
The situation this family lives in is dire in more ways than just physical. There was a hollow emptiness in the eyes of the mother that struck me. A desperation in the grandmother’s voice that tore through me. Abandoned and alone, these women now work only when they can and pray for daily bread in the most literal sense.
Currently, two of this young mother’s five children are being served by Compassion – twins, Doto and Kuluwa. One is sponsored, the other is still waiting. They were all quiet, eyes downcast, shy. When asked what she hopes for her children, this mother replies, “I hope that they can grow up and do business so that they can take care of me.”
Doto is sponsored. Her twin brother, Kuluwa is not.
I left this home with a quivering chin. “How do you see this all the time and not feel overwhelmed?” I asked. “It just all seems so much, like it’s impossible to ever meet all the needs.”
He walked up to me after church and grabbed my hand.
“I would really like to sing with you,” he said. He looked at me with kind eyes, and his hand trembled slightly inside of mine. “My wife and I are moving in a couple of weeks. Can we make this happen soon?”
Of course, I immediately said yes. Mr. David has been a kind, gentle presence inside our church home since our family first began attending. Always quick with a crooked smile, and a wink of the eye, I’d been immediately drawn to his tender spirit.
Parkinson’s Disease has slowed Mr. David down in recent years. But it has not weakened his spirit, nor has it diminished his love of music.
When I readily agreed, Mr. David smiled. “Good. I’d like to sing ‘I’ve Just Seen Jesus.’ Have you heard it?”
In that moment, my heart skipped a beat, because yes, of course I’ve heard the song. I’m a child of the ’80’s, after all. I grew up on Sandi Patty, singing my heart out in the passenger seat, while my mom tried not to cringe behind the wheel.
I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I could pretty much nail ‘Via Dolorosa’ as a nine year old. I was all over it.
But my heart didn’t skip a beat with excitement at the suggestion of this song, but rather trepidation. See, I’m older now, and I’m more aware of the fact that I am not Sandi Patty. I thought of the notes that she hits at the end of that song, and I felt like I might be a little sick. Immediately, fear took hold of me as I imagined myself trying to croak out those high notes into a microphone, and watching everyone seated in front of me cringe the way my mom did behind the wheel of our Buick.
Last Sunday morning, Mr. David and I met early to practice. Again, I felt my heart flutter with nervousness, because I was so focused on the last half of the song – the part where the female vocal is supposed to climb into the rafters and hang out for awhile.
As we ran through the song, though, I found myself less focused on my own short comings (namely that my name isn’t Sandi Patty), and more on the remarkable task that Mr. David faced. Parkinson’s has robbed him of a lot of physical capabilities, and getting the words out quickly enough was a challenge. But the one thing Parkinson’s has not taken from him is his voice. For all my concern about my ability to hit the high notes, I never once doubted his ability to do it.
In the moments leading up to the song, I felt the Lord begin to whisper. It was the gentle, kind admonition that my heart needed.
This morning isn’t about you. It’s not about whether or not you can hit those notes. It’s not about presenting a perfect song to a listening audience.
This morning is about laying your gifts and talents before me in an offering of praise.
Give your voice to me.
I’ve got this.
I heard these words almost as if they’d been spoken audibly, and when it came time to stand in front, the tremor in my spirit was gone. No longer focused on my own shortcomings, I was able to instead focus on the truly remarkable gift that Mr. David shared with all of us.
He stood up there, and despite the physical challenges that threatened to derail him, he opened his mouth and he let the praise bubble out. The words were warbled at times, but it didn’t matter, because his heart was fully present.
By the end of the song, everyone was standing and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Because when we are willing to share our gifts in an act of humble praise, no matter how imperfect they may be, people cannot help but be moved.
I learned something last Sunday. When we offer back our gifts and talents, it’s not about the end result. It’s not about presenting a finished product that is perfectly polished, because perfection doesn’t guarantee impact.
But when we’re willing to offer up our broken praise simply out of a passion for the art, and for the Maker, that is when the greatest offering of praise is presented.
I’ll forever be thankful to Mr. David for teaching me that lesson.
And for fulfilling the secret dream of my 1987 nine-year-old self, which was to be Sandi Patty for a day.
I’m distracted today. We have visitors. The house is a bit of a hot mess. The laundry wants to strangle me in my sleep. And the baby keeps smiling and cooing at me, begging for interaction, which I cannot deny because of this:
See what I mean?
But I’d be remiss if I didn’t document our weekend, or at least the beauty of an unforgettable Easter. We have Lee’s mom with us this Easter, and it is bitter sweet. We miss Herb. We wish he was here with her. All the firsts after someone you love passes away are just so hard.
This is the first Easter. The first visit without him. It’s weighty, and we feel the weight.
But there’s so much in which to rejoice, too. The kids are happy. The baby has teeth, is close to sleeping through the night, and couldn’t get cuter if she tried.
Lee got a new grill and we have so much food in our fridge right now, we won’t need to grocery shop for awhile.
I mean, that’s reason in and of itself to do a happy jig.
And yesterday morning, Landon walked into the bedroom, his brand new Bible clutched in his hands, and he told his dad he wanted to know Jesus. He’s asked questions for months, trying to grasp the weight of Christ’s sacrifice and how that applies to him. He’s told us he believed, and I know that he did.
But yesterday, his faith was made sight.
He arrived at church hours after I did, since I was leading worship, and he grabbed my hand, pulled my face close to his and whispered with a grin, “I asked Jesus in my heart.”
So much pride. Such grace for this freckle-faced little boy of mine. It’s an answer to prayer, and now the prayers continue. Prayers that he will grow in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man. Prayers that he will truly grasp who God is for Himself. That his will not be a blind faith, but one in which he really seeks to know God deeply.
There is something so marvelously joyful for a mother to see her children grasp faith and make it their own. There will be trials as they grow, and there will be more testing of the faith. I expect it, and even welcome it. Because I want my children to know God, and to know Him you have to look for Him.
Easter 2015 was special in so many ways – ways that far exceeded the pain of our recent loss. And I couldn’t help hoping that maybe, somehow, Herb got to experience the joy of his grandson’s salvation as all of heaven rejoiced. I don’t know how that works, but there’s comfort in knowing that he may have gotten the ultimate view of yesterday’s joy.
On Sunday night, a woman that most of us never met, but who we felt like we knew, lost her brave battle with cancer. Over the past months, we’ve watched and we’ve cried, and we’ve wished it was different. It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?
Kara Tippets left this world with her family by her side. She faced her suffering head on, and she welcomed all of us into it. We watched, and we silently wondered how we would respond if her story were our own.
Cancer sucks. There isn’t a nicer way to say it. It is a nasty, unforgiving disease. Cancer doesn’t care if you’re a 68 year old grandfather of eight, thirty-eight year old mother of four, or a twenty-nine year old newly married with the future at your fingertips. Cancer is the great equalizer. It’s ugly, and the suffering that comes from this disease is cruel and devastating.
On Sunday morning, before I learned of Kara’s death, I sat in a room at church while my husband taught on the topic of dying well. Our pastor had just eloquently covered the topic, and Lee was asking the follow up questions. When he got to 2 Corinthians 5:8 everything in my flesh screamed out.
“…we are of good courage, I say, and prefer rather to be absent from the body and present with the Lord.”
It was Lee’s statement following the reading of that verse that gave me pause. “Of course, we prefer heaven,” he said, and I shook my head.
“Do I have to?” I asked. I’m known to play devil’s advocate on occasion when he teaches. I can ask the hard questions, because I’m the one sleeping with the teacher. It gives me a little license to push.
“What do you mean?” he asked me.
“Do I have to prefer heaven? I mean, do I have to? Because I’m not sure I do. Not right now.”
The room grew silent, and I wondered if maybe I’d said too much. Maybe I’m wrong. I should prefer heaven, right? I should prefer to be absent from this broken world where pretty young women die and leave loving husbands and young children. I should prefer to be with the ones I love who’ve gone before me. And I do look forward to that. The prospect of heaven brings comfort and excitement.
But right now? In this moment, do I prefer it?
I don’t know. Because what I’ve got is pretty good. Maybe it’s too good. Perhaps this life I live is too comfortable. Maybe the suffering isn’t great enough. Maybe my surroundings are too Western, so easy that they make the prospect of heaven seem like a punishment rather than a reward.
Truthfully, if I had my choice, I’d choose to be raptured. I’d choose to enter heaven’s gates with my family by my side. I’d happily choose heaven over earth if it didn’t mean I had to leave people behind.
But I don’t get to choose.
And neither did Kara Tippetts. A few weeks ago, a short documentary was released in which Kara offered a most poignant statement. “I feel like I’m a little girl at the party whose dad’s asking her to leave early, and I’m throwing a fit. I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to go.”
What Kara understood better than I can understand is that a preference for heaven, and a desire to remain in the flesh, are not mutually exclusive. We can feel both at the same time.
I believe with all of my heart that “to live is Christ and to die is gain.” (Phillipians 1:21) What waits for us is the presence of God Himself – the full Glory of our Savior revealed. It’s better there. I know that it is.
But leaving means heartache for those who remain. Is God sufficient to care for, and minister to, the loved ones left behind? Yes. He is more than able to hold them in their grief, and walk them through their own suffering. But I don’t want my children to face that fire.
So do I prefer heaven? Yes. I prefer it someday. But to just out loud claim to prefer heaven? Right now? That’s my very real struggle.
I am not a curse word kind of girl. I know that there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, some would actually laud that as a good thing, and it is. I’ve told my kids that curse words are really just lazy words. We can always find a better word to describe how we’re feeling without dropping a four letter word.
Unless we can’t.
A few nights ago, Annika woke up at 12:30. I had been asleep for about an hour and a half when she woke, and my sleep was good. It was that heavy, REM-style sleep that makes you feel kind of magical.
I was tired down to my bones, so when she woke up in a full out scream, I leapt from bed, heart racing, and the first word out of my mouth was a lazy, four-letter word. So unlike me, but in the moment I could think of nothing else to say. And after my heart stopped racing, I fed her and got her back to bed only to hear Lee chuckling beside me.
“That was funny,” he laughed in the darkness.
I was too tired to elbow him in the chin.
Knee-jerk reactions tend to bring out the worst in all of us, don’t they? When we’re surprised or frightened or quickly angered, we find ourselves reacting in a way that may be atypical to our normal operating behavior. When I put Annika to bed that night, I planned for her to sleep all night. I didn’t plan on her scooting into the corner of her bed, bumping her head, and waking herself up in a wail.
What do we do when life doesn’t go quite as planned? How do we react? My vocabulary indiscretion is a lighthearted example, but all of us can point to moments in our daily lives that leave us weary, exasperated…perhaps a little loose-tongued?
It’s exhausting being mom. It’s exhausting hearing how exhausting it is being mom, as I right? But the good news is there is Hope. There’s hope for all of us, and that Hope is alive even at one in the morning when the baby won’t stop crying.
That Hope is alive when the children threaten to tear one another’s eyes out. (Well, Hope and the belief that someday they will grow up and maybe be friends again…or at least be tolerable to one another.)
That Hope is alive when the dinner burns, the car breaks down, and the schedules require one person to accomplish the tasks of six.
Even more – Hope is alive when life doesn’t go as you planned. And this…this is the true beauty of Hope.
It’s been two and a half months since we said our final goodbyes to my father-in-law. As the days stretch into weeks, we’ve begun to really gnaw on the permanence of death, and there have been moments when we wished with everything we had that the outcome of his cancer battle had been different.
But then I think of Herb standing at the foot of his Savior, and I remember that if he were asked to return, he wouldn’t want to, and really I wouldn’t ever ask him. Because in that trust I find so much Hope.
There are so many moments in life that make us feel hopeless. The swell of our days rushes over like a tide, and we’re left out of breath, frustrated, and utterly, completely spent.
But Hope.
If you’re bogged down by the mire of your days, feeling hopeless to dig out from under the rush of routine, of anger, of disappointment, of grief, of simply feeling overwhelmed, then I encourage you to pick up the book Hope for the Weary Mom.
There is so much grace and truth sprinkled throughout this book. It’s like a breath of fresh air in a smoky room. Each page is filled with nuggets of wisdom and peace that you can tuck into your heart, saving them for the moments when life gets to be a little too much.
(And maybe these truths will spill out of your mouths my mouth in times of frustration instead of those pesky four letter words.)
As we ambled back up the rutted dirt path it finally happened. I knew the emotions would take over at some point, but I honestly didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed my second day here. On both sides, children scrambled about watching us with bold curiosity.
