Numbered with the transgressors

Not quite four years ago.

It was a watershed moment. I looked around the courtroom at the other bewildered parents, frankly wishing that my (adopted) son was just a weed dealer or boat thief.

He had done so much worse, and to people who were too young, innocent, and precious to deserve such terrible affliction.

I whined to God–why?! Why me? Why us? Why this?

Too much to bear…

That was my line of thinking until steady eyed Jesus reminded me of the thing He had done for me–

…numbered with the transgressors

I was numbered with the transgressors.

The message was clear–if He, blameless God, could be counted with the evildoers, I could stand this terrible heartbreak and shame.

After all, He was numbered for me, an actual transgressor.

We often forget what misery we have bought but not yet fully paid for in our rebellion against Love.

Love, heartbroken for His children. All His children.

The Rain Song

Rain comes down
After the rush
After the game
Someone, always someone has to
Drive home in the dark
Defeated

Whilst the victors go to Walmart.

You bring rain
You always God
You bring rain
And with it midnight lullabies
For an old insomniac like me

I understand the darkness
In his voice
In his shared sense
Of humor

How “finishing the job”
Could seem so reasonable
To a monster-
o-us–

She listens to the darkness
The rain
The lullaby for a child who would not
Ever
Relent

Now become a man
Face your god
Face your God
No wonder you do not believe in
One
When the other is something so unspeakable

Rain

I love sunshine, in fact the sun was a major factor in our decision to move to Texas years ago.

I love the sun.

But…

The drought in Texas has been bad, really bad–historic bad for years.

Farmers lost crops.

Ranchers sold their cattle.

Trees died.

It has been bad.

So the presence of rain in any quantity has been a blessing meriting worship. I made a deal with God to thank Him publicly for any rain. I got the easy part of the deal. I always do with Him.

So the beautiful, steady rain has been this wonderful reminder of God’s blessing and grace. Even more so knowing that

He sends the rain on the just and the unjust.

I figure we are all unjust. So that would mean the rain falls on Jesus and the rest of us.

That is God for you. He rains blessings only Jesus deserves on all of us.

And in return we should not miss the parable of the drought–if we live in the absence of the Spirit of God, our lives will be dry, barren indeed.

Let justice flow down.
Let Jesus reign.

My Joy

John 2:9-10 (NIV)
and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside [10] and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”

Pour the water first
Jesus is coming
Joy.

About That Biker Bar..

His mind is broken. I know this, but it doesn’t mitigate the pain of what he did to us–his adopted family and especially the young children whose innocence he violated.

I told people about this and they had the uniformly shocked look of a colonoscopy patient.

Especially when I articulated my anger.

I put it this way–

I want to take him to a biker bar and tell them what he did then let then deal with him.

As though I had been to a biker bar…
As though this were a real thing I could do….
As though it would help…

Our relationship has been winnowed down to rare, monosyllabic emails.

Are you ok?
Love,
Mom

I am ok.
Happy bday

We do not trust each other.

So I do not tell him what I would tell you–

the hurt goes on in the lives of his victims. They grieve. We all grieve. And there is a terrible loneliness as well.

I understand that while the bikers are imaginary, a way for me to substantiate the demand for justice, justice itself demands an accounting.

Leaving me the free time to mourn. To grieve for what has been lost and a future in this most uncertain world.

No Threadbare God

She tells me a story
That haunts me all day
And into the night

About ordinary love

I run a line down memory
Not just mine but hers
Especially hers
All that I did not see

Plays out in normal…
nightmares sometimes happen in broad daylight

Chatty conversations with the devil
Always
Turn into shouting matches

I beg God, please…
Rain down mercy from heaven on these little ones
They do not deserve this

Heal us.

When I catch a glimpse of Him
No threadbare God
Ever
Again.

Blackhawk Down

This is the anniversary of tragedy in Mogadishu.

But my sense of loss over these events has bled outward through the years.

When it happened I wondered why Clinton waffled so badly not just in Somalia but even more tragically in Rwanda.

The gruesome loss of American lives in Africa would eventually be overshadowed by the meaninglessness of their sacrifice–no one came to save the Somalis and no one came to save the Rwandans.

And really, Who will save any of us?

We call ourselves a rich country but we are debt-soaked and impoverished, too spoiled and weak to pass a balanced budget and live within our means.

And yet our moral deficits outstrip our fiscal woes. Clinton was a moral-less man yet so many revere him. All I can see is the people he let down–people who expected him to use his office to protect the innocent not debauch young women.

And that is where the story gets personal. In 1998 when I was losing a foster daughter to a fixed adoption, Clinton was embroiled in a sex scandal. I wrote his wife asking for a federal review of the illegal activities I witnessed as a foster parent.

Months later I got a form letter from her telling me to appeal to one of the people I had reported.

I got the message; I lost the child.

My remaining adopted children craved violence. They did not have much to work with at our house. Most of our movies were kid-friendly.

But the three my adopted son ferreted out because of their violence?

Tristan and Isolde
Blackhawk Down
The Passion of the Christ

Now both he and his sister glory in their horror movies.

Not perhaps realizing how close they are to autobiography.

Blackhawk Down….

In the spring of 2007 another Blackhawk helicopter came down near Opp, Alabama. This one had my father in it. He was on an accelerated schedule to train pilots for our foreign wars.

People whispered that Bush was at fault. The army had rushed training. The pilots my father taught were too green. There were flaws in the flight simulators.

His students walked away from the crash, my father did not.

Some accidents are “unsurvivable.” They change who we are forever.

There are two parts of the movie I cannot forget. In the first a fatally wounded soldier is told he will survive as his life bleeds out in the darkness.

In the second the survivors reach sanctuary.

In the end we will all face the unsurvivable wreckage of our broken lives. And when we do, only a Mighty Fortress will save us.

Social media games

The word games on Facebook drive me crazy. Really, people? Really?

You really don’t think I and 300 million other people cannot find a state, a drink, a dog’s name that doesn’t have “a” in it?!?

Yes. I know these games are just for fun, but their cloying recurrence on the Internet becomes a mild irritant to a reclusive evangelist with an ax to grind (me–a pronoun without an a).

The truth is there is a question we cannot afford to neglect and it has nothing to do with spelling.

It is this–name anyone or thing other than Jesus that can save you.

Yep. I said the j word.

Everyone is looking–money, sex, fame…combing our small and brief horizons for anything, anyone who can save us.

When like milk, Connecticut, and Rex, the answer is right there before us–

Jesus.

A savior with no a in his name. Only love in his eyes.

Good Shepherds–a dying breed

There seems to be a new trend in excuses for rape–pastors who claim their illicit and immoral acts were somehow motivated by a desire to “cure” their victims.

This, of course, like so many of the insidious blurred lines of our debauched culture, is from the pit of hell.

These men, or anyone who uses the mantle of spiritual authority to harm children, should expect judgment.

But how about the antidote to wolves in sheep’s clothing? Where are the good shepherds?

I have read tragic stories lately about violence in Kenya and Chicago, about livestock suffering at the hands of people, about grief coming unexpectedly from a simple water accident.

Each story of violence and loss reminds us of the importance of good shepherds.

We live in a perilous world and we ourselves are the most dangerous element of that world–polluting, raping, murdering, and neglecting.

Yes. Neglecting.

Sometimes the worst thing we do is not direct harm.

Sometimes it is a terrible enough injustice for us to walk away from our flocks, our children when we know there are predators lurking in the fields.

Jesus Had Two Dads…

Ironically I first ran across this interesting “justification” of same sex parenting when I was researching the story of a young boy who was trafficked and sexually exploited by his “dads.”

I still grieve for him and the terrible tragedy of his life with them…and I ask who will pick up the pieces?

There are plenty of wretched parents of all sorts of backgrounds, and I do not–not think that homosexuality disqualifies a person from great parenting any more than I believe that heterosexuality engenders great parenting.

Let’s face it, most of us are just ok parents, and some of us are just plain lousy.

But back to the marquee statement–

Jesus had two dads…and he turned out ok.

When I read that statement my first reaction is–really?!?

And my second is–have you read the story?!!

Dying beaten and broken on a Roman cross is not ok.

It is the death of a criminal.

Jesus died with murders, thieves, terrorists.

He believed he was paying the ultimate price for a broken world.

Do you?