Choosing Freedom

As a child, I don't remember talking about feelings very much.  Talking about feelings made you vulnerable, and in our house, vulnerable was never something you wanted to be.  I remember writing.  Writing helped me put on paper all the thoughts swirling around in my head -- things I thought I'd never be able to speak out loud. 

As the story of my parents unfolded, I realized the more I heard, the less I knew. It was a story shrouded in vague answers and circumvented truths.  I grew up choosing sides.  My mother knitted Christmas stockings, and baked cupcakes for homeroom; my mother talked to the old folks at the nursing home.  My mother would cry as dinner dried out in the oven, waiting for Dad to come home.  I chose Mom's side.

Two years ago this month, my father stepped into glory.  His death has done more for me spiritually than any other single event in my life, and I doubt he'd mind my saying that.

Truthfully, I expected his death to release me from bondage, a bondage I had known since childhood -- the bondage of a little girl trying so desperately to win her father's affection through any means possible.  It didn't.  My father's death did not release me from anything, but Jesus did.

I write to you now, ashamed -- ashamed to say that all my years in Christian school, in Christian counselling, attending a Christian church...  I spent them all in bondage because I chose bondage!  I went to my father's bedside shortly before he died.  I wanted to tell him how God had blessed me with a wonderful husband, a fantastic family and a rich life.  I wanted him to make his last days with his family count for more than a cheap suit on Sunday morning and aloofness by Sunday night.  I wanted him to give me some heirloom of wisdom or hope that I could carry with me when he was gone.  I wanted to be there for him as he lay dying; to walk him to the throne room of his Heavenly Father.  All my expectations of a Hallmark moment left me sitting in my truck crying, hyperventilating and banging my fist on the steering wheel.  Bound by my ego, bound by my expectations, and bound by the idea that I was somehow less than I could be, because my father would never live up to those expectations.

At his memorial service, I sat there with the assurance my father was happily in heaven.  I listened as others testified what a blessing my father had been to them.  I listened as others spoke of the father I never knew.  And then, I did know...

My father's testimony may not have included me or others of his family, and though he has to answer for that, it does not mean he had no testimony at all.  Others tell me he had a heart for God.  I find comfort in that, for I often worried if he had a heart at all.  I am not his judge.  I was never promised a champion for a father; I've never been entitled to a "Dad."  But when I pray to my Heavenly Father I know the One who answers exceeds all my expectations, has lovingly and wisely created me, and today directs my paths.

Got Any Spare Change?

Matthew 2:19-23

¹⁹ After Herod died, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt ²⁰ and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel, for those who were trying to take the child’s life are dead.”

²¹ So he got up, took the child and his mother and went to the land of Israel. ²² But when he heard that Archelaus was reigning in Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. Having been warned in a dream, he withdrew to the district of Galilee, ²³ and he went and lived in a town called Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

So when, exactly, did God change His mind?  If Jesus was prophesied as a Nazarene, why the extra step, a false alarm to rise and return to Israel?

1 Samuel 15:29

He who is the Glory of Israel does not lie or change his mind; for he is not a human being, that he should change his mind.

If God does not change His mind, if God was not outsmarted by Herod's son ascending the throne after him, what was this?

Isaiah 55:8-9

⁸ “For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the LORD.
⁹ “As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.







I don't presume to know the mind of God; all I can attest is what I have experienced personally, or what God has provided all of us in the Scriptures.  I do know God has "geared me up," so to speak, to face one event, and has led me onto an entirely different path.  Is this because of choices I made in the interim?  Perhaps.  Is this because the actions of others have had some impact on how things developed?  I'm not sure.  Was it some sort of heavenly test? a dry run?  I can't say.  But the way in which I meet each calling, and the disappointment, confusion or relief I experience when things turn out differently than I expect, change me, change who I am, and change my relationship with my Heavenly Father. 

God has called us to be faithful.  To pray.  To boldly approach His throne.  To ask that it may be given.  To seek and know Him.     

Oh, Brother!

The shh-tic-tic of Bishop's paws on the hardwoods next to our bed.  The short trek to the back door, only to find it's raining big, floppy, cold drops; there's no way he's going out in that.  Burrowing back into bed between sheets that have by this time begun to grow cold. 

All of it enough to flip the throttle of my slightly warped, always active mind, over to "FULL."  Or, as one of my favorite childhood heroes used to say, "My Spidey-senses are tingling."  Despite having gone to sleep only four short hours ago.  The reason for this sudden insomnia?  Less than twelve hours ago, we were preparing to leave my "nephew's" wedding -- a nephew I never knew until my father's death in 2009.  This is where my story begins.

My father had been married before he and my mother were married.  A simple, so-what sort of explanation far too common in this day and age.  Given the circumstances, the "players" involved, and the convoluted stuff cheesy stories are made of, yeah, it kinda was a big deal, but I share it with others, so I won't lay it all out there, so to speak. 

I don't remember ever not knowing I had other siblings.  As a child, I would wonder what my "big brothers" were like; there were two.  Particularly, when my little brother -- the one I shared both parents with -- was getting on my nerves, I would imagine trading him in for a brother I could really look up to; figuratively and literally, I guess. 

When my father passed a couple of years ago, I finally met my younger older brother.  Looking into his eyes was for me, like looking into the eyes of my father -- something I'd never been able to do.  Talking with him was reminiscent of some of the theological discussions my father and I would have when I was a teenager -- sometimes because of his great knowledge of Scripture, sometimes because the uncomfortable silence would gnaw at me and it was my "go-to" for finding some common ground between us.  But this?  This was different.  This was another piece of a puzzle, gently locking into place; this was a different kind of brother than the one of whom I had dreamed.

Two years later, less than a day ago, right smack in the middle of a mad dash to the parking lot to grab gum from the truck, so I could meet some folks without actually breathing coffee into their faces, and...

Number One Brother steps from between two chairs and introduces himself.  Wow!  (BTW, I'd considered calling him older older brother, but wisely I think, abandoned that point of reference.)  So how does it feel?  Still processing that one, but here's what I've got so far...

Superficially, I am amazed at the similarities in mannerisms and facial expressions; things heredity doesn't seem to explain.

Profoundly, I have been blessed with two great brothers and their families.  Half-brothers as a result of biology, but they are brothers in Christ -- a facet I consider to be of far more significance.  If shared genes, or curiosity, or common invitations never draw us to relationship again, I hope a mutual love of Our Lord and Savior will.

The Way

This road I am on is not my own.  While it has been given me to travel, one day I will be forced to reckon with what I have or have not done while moving toward its end.  My reward will not come because I have travelled many miles or few.  My prize will not be given because the road has been exceptionally difficult or blessedly smooth.  This road is a gift, a gift which I must pass on to those I meet along the way; a gift I am called to share with those who do not yet know The Way.  When I reach the end of this road I will stand alone before the One has given me this gift, My Heavenly Father.  He will ask, "Who have you invited to follow you?"

"I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no man comes unto the Father except through me." ~ Jesus Christ