the loss of effective parenting.

I see their smiles now easy and free.  Peace quiets worry at this sight. And joy fills my heart in the deep of night.

Most days lived under our shared roof sprawl out without much difficulty.  Comfort and security exists again.  I remember the days burning hot and dry when we lived a million miles from one another exiled to our own island on fire.  How unending those days felt!  How unrelenting those waves beat against our shore while offering no respite.

The days, weeks and months following their mother's death, my wife then, will forever be immortalized as a graceful metamorphosis on the timeline of our family, the grand redesign of us now, then and ahead.  For nearly 3 years now, we have been learning life again, finding joy in mundane free from extraordinary ordeal.  Finding joy in day unfolding with boring, unassuming regularity; that’s how you know your heart is beating alive and not a shell of yesteryear.

To be clear, happiness is what we pull from the sky, the smiles we try to wear as long as we can bare, but joy ...joy finds us as the sky falls to find us.

Joy swells in white flags waving and in the end of the pursuit of happiness.  It glimmers rebelliously amidst darker days blanketed by fear, worry, doubt and is the praise of screw ups who know better than to trust the feeble strength of their own hand.

The light in each of their eyes dims, their faces hang in heavier moments, and I’m reminded again close to my chest I have no guarantees.  Nothing promised apart from the breath drawn right now; not even the next day as I once believed.

Belief, that’s all we have and the only choice ever really needed to be made.

And that’s what fuels joy: belief.

The folly of the proud is self-reliance, but the triumph of the humble is joy despite all things, anything, independent of day, night, struggle, ease and especially fairness.

Maybe you’re like me in that I worry often as a parent.  I push hard into most days and try to squeeze as much as I can out of it because there are no absolutes or guarantees that my effort put into my children will produce well - adjusted, loving people whose hearts belong to God and affections to the life given soon to them.  I know as many parents who do everything as right as one can do who sit up late at night wondering what went wrong as the others who stumbled about aimlessly trampling inconsistently in selfish and ignorant circles whose kids end up running an honorable bid for sainthood.

There are simply no guarantees in life as there are in parenting.  “Train up a child in the way he should go”* . . . and he may in fact stray.  He may return one day to God’s grace and goodness, but maybe he won’t.  No one saves, save for God.  That’s why we must only believe.

Then they said to him, "What must we do, to be doing the works of God?"  Jesus answered them, "This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent."**

And so in our quest and effort as parents, we must courageously believe in God’s love and plan more than our pocketed strategies and parenting techniques said to tame the heart of the unruliest, liveliest little child.  For when we trust in God’s ability in their lives and despite our parenting, we transcend human effort of dust trying to cover dust and allow Eternity to shape, form and guide into all ahead.

As a dad to three little beautiful girls, my heart winces a little more with each increasingly complex conversation.  I do good in my own effort as their dad, but soon we’ll travel hand in hand to an impasse where my foot will slip and my hand not able to hold.

Right there my heart better be ready to let go and grab hold of God’s grace and ability.  Right then, my heart must be able to believe or all that I’ve done is try diligently to look capable for as long as I could until my hand could hold no longer.

:::::::

“The law says, ‘do this,’ and it is never done.  Grace says, ‘believe in this,’ and everything is already done.” -Martin Luther

Believe in the future already owned by the One who purchased a day unable to be bought by impoverished hearts.  Be free.  Belong.  Trust.

image found @ www.ronitbaras.com  ||  *Proverbs 22:6  ||  **John 6:28-29

together, out of good.

Grant, O Lord, that as we are baptized into the death of they blessed Son our Saviour Jesus Christ, so by continual mortifying our corrupt affections we may be buried with him; and that through the grave, and gate of death, we may pass to our joyful resurrection; for his merits, who died, and was buried, and rose again for us, they Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Easter-Even, The Collect.

None of us are good.  No one one is.

As we approached the darkest of this shared season of Lent, we touched the deepest, most intimate wrong buried in of our human hearts.  Good, the lie that we are okay, can make it out on our own and all we need, all we want dwells within us.

The serpent hiss, perverted benevolence ringing in hearts rooted in choice.

We are all okay, good from beginning, innocent - a diseasing lie eating us.

Their eyes widened a bit and ears tuned in to words undoing us.  No good in us.  There is brooding wrong within each of us demanding surrender, lording desire; a problem sitting heavy on the chest of mankind.  Sin that won’t leave us alone and a scab that we won’t quit picking at.

For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.  (Romans 7:18, ESV)

An illuminated reality in my role as parent has become apparent: just as I accept that there is no good within me, there is no good within them either.  None.  Their hearts live just as displaced as mine always choosing that which the heart wants rather than what it needs.  My daughters lie to protect themselves, hate when their offended and hurt, take what’s not theirs, whine, complain, grumble and ignore others in need for the sake of comfort.  Despicable hearts dirty in sin no matter how we pretty the outer.  We stink the smell of offense.

And this particular realization and confession delivered us properly to the darkness of Lent, the eve of redemption evermore.

Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.  (Romans 6:3-4, ESV)

My approach as dad now broadened focused on uprooting good from their hearts to give way for grace properly, set but then, that night when our Lenten discussions crescendoed well to redemption, the release held greatest importance.  As our devotional book closed, our hearts opened floating free.  Their little heads bowed as if looking dead into their guilty hearts and with quiet words Grace displaced good.

Like the good thief hanging guilty next to Jesus, grace and forgiveness found them readily and easy.  With gratitude and solemness we looked ahead to the remembrance of Good Friday and the promise forthcoming on Easter morning.

Praise the Lord, grace has come.

together, in the branches.

 

Nothing beats late nights with amazing friends meandering through conversation of all that was, is and hopefully will be.  Of equal irreplaceable delight is waking up late into morning with family and those friends to another day of snowy mountain adventure.

And this is vacation; a definite break from busy, from striving and reaching and worry about not being formidable enough for the dreams swirling inside.

When we leave the Colorado mountains, nights return to earlier endings and my alarm sounds annoyingly before dawn waking me to another day, I will be rested and ready after more than 2 weeks of vacation and time away to reset and heal.  But for now, I write into a quiet morning beside a steaming mug of chai tea awaking me even more, all while lost in the view of snow capped mountains whispering adventure both now and into life ahead.

:::::::

As we continue together into Lent, discussions of the heart deeper unfold.  Words of challenge and grace fill our conversations together throughout our days away in the mountains.  I anticipated a break.  In the weeks leading up to vacation, we followed a pattern of reading and praying together for grace to help us engage in giving up of conveniences to grasp a greater understanding now of God in our day to day.  Instead of our pattern completely vanishing in the snow and easy days, each of the girls asked how and what we would fast and more importantly, when.

In their asking and reflecting of our togetherness in this Lent journey, a conversation from before the mountains, snow and rest, returned to me; a conversation of heart and words with Elizabeth, my eldest daughter.

There we sat.  The two of us words hanging in grace sheltering our weakness and covering our mistakes.  The greatest erasing of wrong leaving no sign except what we redraw in our effort earning unbelief that God could possibly be that good and undeservingly accepting of our human hearts.

She sat in sadness judged by her own heart, tangled in thought.

“Dad, ...sometimes I get so angry and frustrated at life.  I feel confused and lost.  Sometimes I say bad words in my head, really, really bad words, Dad.”

I allowed for the pause between us to encapsulate the moment, her helpless sinking knowing that scripture reading, prayer and conversation all shared together had been raking over her heart ...and finding her.

“What words do you think when you’re angry?”

“Uhh ... really, really bad words.”

“I see.  They must be really bad if you don’t want to say them.”

I sped up our conversation out of her lingering words suspended in guilt with a hopefully lasting image lifting her sinking.  Often I describe our life together in terms of journey, a landscape of rising mountains, descending valleys and sometimes treacherous impasses.  This image lifting her out of guilt and mistakes was one of a towering tree stretching substantially over us.

Grace like a tree shelters us from guilt striking down from darker skies and together we are safe in its impenetrable branches.

“Um, what?”

All three of my daughters deal with my words dragging romantic and descriptive.  They are used to just staring at me until I’m done and I’m used to their blank looks lost in words loaded with meaning.  I like our conversations that way.  Questions are sure to ensue giving way for their ownership pulling understanding into little hearts.

I pulled back the curtain a bit and assured Elizabeth that emotions exist very real in our hearts and our responses, even the bad unrepeatable words, don’t separate us from God’s fierce love.  To her surprise, I told her that often those words, even the worst offenders launch from my heart, too.

“...and that’s okay, Elizabeth.”

Grace’s strong branches will always hold us up and cover us wholly.  As a parent, no greater gift can be given than the assurance that all will be well and all, despite emotion and weakness of heart.

Grace given. Grace received.

...all in the branches together.

*image copyright inmenlo.com

acquiesce.

I used to think everything would be all right. .all right

And I called it good.

Bowed low at the altar of padded pews and neatly folded answers, All was good and all was good.

Paths lead gently into tomorrow.

I walked with a smile that feared the night that never came.

Then one day, a man visited my door on an usually average afternoon.  At the hearing of his knock, my heart weakened.  Deep thuds sounded on the door I held key to not asking for entrance but announcing arrival.  Even in the absence of invitation, he would not be shunned, rebuked or dispelled.

I just held my breath as the water rose higher and prayed for my lungs to seal.

All is not well, friends.  As in, not all okay.

Days burn uncontrollably wrong. Evil and wrong lie in wait, tangled in the day like weeds in flowers.

Don’t pluck them lest they all get pulled in a day not ready for beauty to look ugly. Tears escape broken hearts holding together weakly.  Frailty is the song on the lips of those whose hearts dare not die alone.  Life gets so twisted and sideways that we wake after days lost drifting to a something we barely even recognize.  This is not what we dreamed of when all was all right.

In the strain and the sweat and the swearing of holding the world while fumbling for good, a small voice whispered, “Can we just break?”

“Is everything all right?” “Is everything all right?” “Is everything all right?” “Is everything all right?” “Is everything all right?” “Is everything all right?”

Is everything all right?

 “I am broken parts sure of only weaknesses     With nothing left to show, no illusions left to hide behind”

All men must break before they bare.  Lift our hearts out of their cage in worship and wonder, in defeat and abandon.

In the dark of night, the lone falling, the cold sinking ... the death of you and me and us quieted in the birth of beginning again

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

...all has always been well and all right.  Before breath and time dying, God celestially expansive then gloriously finding his created lost souls losing ground and breaking loose in night.

Another day awoke me from staring too long at pictures burning.  Day young and new brushed my shoulder broken then, now healed under pressure that ended.

I now know that to be good, rightly. And amen and amen.

a manuscript, two lives pulled closer together.

After nearly two years from beginning, my manuscript is brushing the rim of done, the first draft at least. The words are all written from start to finish.  Re-editing looms and parts may be rearranged and reworked for clarity, but (and a huge conjunctive but it is) the manuscript awaits the transformative process of words and files into an actual book.

Quietly - slowly - and in the dark of night and the fog of shadows, life re-found, rebuilt and rediscovered in words and paper thin moments.

Less than two weeks ago now, I sat quietly at the ruggedly aged table where I wrote the last words that seem to appropriately echo the words that open the manuscript some 50,000 words earlier.

“My eyes open slowly, knowingly to a new world.”

Two years ago when I sat freshly wounded from the then still warm, pulsating memories of my wife’s death I was so lost and emptied, ravaged by such a blow, from death taking all that I measured didn’t belong to it.  I started to write words that bled pain and suffering and confusion and doubt, memories that held happiness and good and reality broken in tragedy.  Those words captured in my manuscript echoed out like prayers and hopeless tirades reaching for something to break the speed at which I felt the falling happening.

And God did find me.  Over and over again, remade and strengthened in faithful frequency.

A new fortitude for life glowing on the horizon dawning emerged in His helping.  Two lives pulled closer together - the good one I once knew and the better one now laying before me, tangled in difficulty and unknown.  I’ve come to confess the life after my wife’s death better because in it God’s sweet grace causes even the most difficult of times to bow low and every impassable moment able to be crossed.

And this is the book that I have written, a story recounting life beautiful ending and another beginning eclipsing even the greatest moments of that once beautiful life.  These days will always be loved the most.

Below is the opening of a chapter currently entitled, “Surely Goodness and Mercy.”  It reflects the pulling together of both lives and fortitude only found in God’s ridiculous grace that found me so aptly.

I will not allow myself to be the man hollowed by pain, afraid of shadows and those things which lie in waiting.  Life may indeed only seem to take from us, days, memories, happiness, but courage is mine to give.  And the source, it is immeasurably and unfathomably deep.  It is unending.  Through darkened spots and failing strength, the reason -- or reasons -- for courage remains.

Three reasons.

I saw a man alone, subdued by pain, frightened by the fear of all that may be some day and I quietly asked to never be that man.  I can’t.  I won’t.  The man fumbling through fading memories like a thief clutching a leaking bag.  The man stumbling, drunk on why things settled the way they did, talking to himself, mumbling angrily and hurt.

That will not be me.  My daughters will not know this man.  They might see me wince and wrestle to ground life haunting and yesterday hanging, but they will never know that kind of fully hollowed heart comfortable only in shadows.  I may not have much greater to give them than that, but my healing will be an echo that resounds like bells of freedom in their warm little hearts.

And their little hearts will warm.  Never could I leave us stranded roadside and stuck forever by the sourest of moments in life, an undoing reaching so deep into the fabric of who we were unraveling the strongest of loves, ours, sewn together by life’s untroubled waters and God’s goodness then.

Life was good then it ended in her death lessening us remaining, those who loved her most.

But the days continued.  And they demanded to be lived.

Currently, I’m working out a deal for publishing and anticipate my book to be available maybe even as soon as mid-year.  I say this with an undying happiness.  There were so many days I thought it more worth quitting than completing.  Little by little, in inches and through day by failing day what I once considered an audacious reach and grand wish has been pulled closer; two lives pulled closer together.