Category Archives: God

God is listening (even if Wendy Davis isn’t)

Posted on by
Reply

A friend of mine told me last night that he doesn’t talk to God because God doesn’t talk back.

Well…

He does actually.

In fact if you cultivate ears to hear He can be quite specific. The problem is we tend not to listen (sort of like Wendy Davis, apparently…where is that woman?!)

I know. You think I am a nut. But whether you believe it or not I blame some of that on God listening.

Let’s take the pink sneakers for instance. I was pretty disgusted by the way the media co-opted the story of five month old unborn babies getting torn from life itself and made it a cozy-cute story about footwear.

I kept thinking about all the dead children who will never wear their pink sneakers. So I prayed–God, if you want me to do something about this help me find a pair of tiny pink sneakers.

I think I kinda upped the ante because I went to a single resale store and prayed again–ok, God, I need the perfect slippers. I had to hunt a bit to find the kid’s shoe section. There were only a handful of shoes there, but the ones I had prayed for were sitting on the shelf. God listening.

Every story changes if you believe in an interventionist God. It changes again if He is a God of love. Again if justice is in His strong right arm. And finally if you acknowledge He expects something from you.

He does. Are you going to listen?

Don’t know how? Not that hard. Try this–

Read something from the Gospel every day.

Turn stuff off. Candy Crush may be great, but God takes focus.

Look for signs of His presence, power, and love–you know, sunsets, kittens, Leonardo da Vinci. Stuff random and senseless can’t do.

Ask Him.

I have known God personally for years, some of them tough and effacing. In all that time there has not been one question He hasn’t answered.

He is worth the trouble, the quiet, and the separation from the herd. Let’s face it sometimes the herd can get a little noisy, pink sneakers and all.

Just: a book review

Posted on by
4

No one in their right mind writes a book review of their own book so people don’t have to read it.

So here goes:

I wrote Just because books had helped me through some tough times.

It is not a work of literature. It is a cry for help. I wanted to add to the voices of men and women who had helped me–mostly celebrity survivors who had been courageous and told their stories. Oprah, and Ellen, Sugar Ray, Ashley Judd, and Todd Bridges…

What would have I done without them?

So this the story: we fostered and adopted children damaged by neglect and abuse.

Life with them was so hard. It became even harder when we found out my adopted son had molested some of my children and others.

We pushed for legal consequences.
We dealt with the damage.

I was surprised by how little protection the justice system gave us. The book was a cry for help and a warning.

What I would add to that as an epilogue of sorts is that there is another book too painful and personal to write about what I call the shunning syndrome.

If you are brave or foolish enough to speak openly about being victimized by sexual abuse, you lose almost everyone you love.

Tough book to write. Even tougher to live. Par for the course for humans–we let our wolves drive our flocks.

But beyond the lonely places, we are fine (thank you).

Prayers for my reactive attachment disorder children

Posted on by
2

I face this story every day, every moment of every day:

Once upon a time there were two teens. They both came from stories of neglect and abuse. Someone had hurt them by not giving them safety. Others by transgressing the most basic law of love–don’t hurt a child.

They hooked up. Had kids. Wandered into ways to dull the pain and longing in their hearts.

The children were so young but they still remember hunger, watching their parents leave them locked alone with a single cupcake to share among them all.

Longing. We all long for something–love, truth, justice. But what if that longing is never heard? A child cries but no one holds him? A little girl lives with a gnawing ache for food.

What happens when the search for love and safety comes up empty before they are one or two or three?

I watch her face in each picture. She never smiles. I want to say to her mother–pick her up, snuggle with her, talk baby talk to her and feed her. That is why you get wic, so she can be full.

Break the cycle, girl, for God’s sake, break the cycle.

What is it like to be raised by wolves?

Better than this. Wolves are social animals, willing to hunt for their young.

I search for answers, but there are few that satisfy. I cringe at memory–my own exasperation, impatience, and exhaustion. So many things I would do better.

I say that ruefully knowing that the maxim I had at 27 was true and mattered–regardless of the raggedy look of things. You must hold on. They need years of you just being there.

I am here. I won’t ever leave you.

He asks if we can meet. I say yes, but only me. The others are not ready.

Ready is a placeholder for heartbroken. Reactive attachment disorder can seep into the lives of everything it meets. It takes no prisoners.

I pray. I pray all the time. I pray they do not hurt or kill or disfigure. I pray for safety. I cast about for anyone or anything I could enlist to save them…from themselves. The longing for mother’s love turns to drugs, alcohol and reckless touch. Wires in a machine all shorted or circuited wrong.

Nothing will work but love, and by love I mean compassion. And by compassion I mean Jesus. I do the only thing that makes sense when the disease at the heart of your child is terminal–I cling to the feet of God and say, Save these babies, resurrecting God.

Welcome to the Post Christian Era

Posted on by
Reply

I once lived in a country without religion.

Yes. There were churches. With cameras and careful supervision.

They knew who came and who went, they controlled each dry scrap of bread.

But were these churches christian? Was this Christianity?

Bells can ring and bells can toll.
We should recognize the difference–a matter of life or death…

The Parable of a Floor

Posted on by
Reply

The floor lay beneath Berber carpet for years–maybe fifteen, maybe twenty. I am sure it was pretty when it was new.

When the carpet came up the floor was exposed, rough with bits of carpet underlay and glue. I sanded off the glue and bits of carpet. We all pried up staples.

Other jobs intervened–xeriscape, painting, and my husband’s amazing carpentry.

I spent this weekend scraping the floor, staining it, and then applying the first layer of polyurethane.

It felt like archeology–the floor went from bare wood to rich beauty. It is now my favorite floor in the house–every detail, every sign of age has taken on a rich patina of grace.

Real. It is real and because it is real it is lovely. You can imitate real, you can buy it for a price, but when it is a transformation you are allowed to participate in, the picture stays with you–a beautiful history.

Where are you going?

Posted on by
2

My father was a straight talker.

He was raised in a baptist church by the parent who attended, but he was also raised in the south during a time when it was hard to miss the hypocrisy (is it ever far from us?)

He walked away. When I first knew him he did not believe in God. Even when other members of our family became flamingly involved with Jesus, my dad stayed back.

He did not take the leap until a conversation with a fire-and-brimstone type who pointed out that his hereditary baptist background suggested that the alternative to the yoke of Jesus was a bit warm.

Warm apparently worked. I say this because I never really felt it was even necessary to bring hell into the conversation. Who needs to know they are escaping a one-way trip to a dump if the alternative is an all-expenses-paid trip to paradise?

Where are you headed?

And who or what is leading you there?

Paper Love

Posted on by
Reply

I see an image of the word love written beautifully by a young woman I know who actually wouldn’t know real love if it walked up to her and slapped her in the face with a fish.

Not that love would ever do that, of course…

My point is: love is a potent magic. Actually, love is more than that. Love is a Person.

I know this because for years and years and years I have lived on a diet of scraps when it comes to human love. Many of us do.

Humans see our faults, boss us around, prefer second-hand shoes to our hearts and minds.

Humans: a rum bunch.

So I type in “God’s love” and begin to read the verses–I am on a quest for love.

I immediately feel the iron. God speaks to us of love as though it is the chicken wire that keeps out the wolves, the walls holding back the storm, a strong fortress against assaulting armies.

This kind of love is tough die-for-your-sins stuff.

Look-into-the-face-of-hell-then-dive-in-to-save-me love.

Yup. No flowers and chocolates here. Something stronger instead. They say if you bury gold for a thousand years it will not rust. They say honey never decays. We’ve all had loves that walked out or faded.

But this guy Jesus. He is gold and honey love. Tough as nails. The nails that pinned him down to the Cross…for me.

Worth the world entire.
The world in His eyes.

Love the Island

Posted on by
2

You can imagine me
Being dumped
On a nearly deserted island
just for talking too much

And you can also
See me chafe
Not so much for myself
(I am quite capable of talking to flora, fauna, and God, thank you, very much)

No.

For the children in my boat
They don’t deserve this–
The extreme isolation
So many freaking
Hot piña coladas!

No.

They deserve community
Friends who see them through
A voyage through calm seas

I tell myself this
Too much
Until I remember a wee bit of sage advice–

If you are going to burn your bridges
You better love the island

Love indeed
Beautiful survivors

I Have Lost You.

Posted on by
Reply

I would have written this as a letter
I would have used the proper
Format:

Dear You,

Only…
That is the point
Dear you, not me
Not God Himself, quite real

Your appetite for bacon
Recalls to me the reason
Why?

We are not family anymore
Friends with the devil
Need to count the flies
Attending him

I speak the oblique
Because you have a right to be angry
We all do
But only on the pallet in hell
we lie down…

So close to Jesus.