Sometimes a Broken Heart Is Just What God Gives Us

What does it mean to be a "mom?" I'm still learning. Though the tangibles seem to change with time, the intangibles appear to remain the same. It's just that the intangibles, at least for me, have been a little more difficult to maintain. For instance, when my first child was born, I knew there'd be diapers and feedings and lots of sleepless nights. I had no idea just how many and how difficult some of those days would be. I knew that, in spite of all of that, I would love this precious gift the best way I knew how. I'd play and kiss booboos and surround him with love and teach him everything I could so he could grow up with every advantage possible. A bond was formed from the moment I knew he was, and I could actually feel terror rising up within me when I thought of anything that might harm him.

But children grow up, and the tangibles change. Feedings morphed into an adequate supply of chicken nuggets; booboos were exchanged for rides to work. I'd still tell him I loved him and I tried to teach him, but he was developing his own ideas, and the things I knew no longer appeared relevant to him. The terror I now felt came from the feeling he was harming himself. And I tendered my resignation.

I've been studying the Book of Jonah. God called Jonah to be a prophet to the people of Nineveh, a desperately wicked people. Jonah knew of their wickedness and God's mercy. Why try to reform people that haven't done a thing to help themselves? Why have people like that -- people who should be punished for their recidivism and wantonness -- in "our" club? Why keep hoping for people who have proven themselves hopeless? Jonah tendered his resignation.

One of the intangibles of motherhood -- of parenthood, is having a broken heart for your child. When my children were small, I was not a Christ follower. I believed He existed, but I only talked to Him when I was really in a jam. I lived in such a way that those things which caused me pain or conflict, I extinguished or disregarded. I did not build healthy relationships -- with anyone, and my children suffered for that. By the time my children were well into their teen years, I was seeking Jesus, but quite a bit of damage had been done, and the hurt was deep on both sides. As I began to mature in Christ, I asked forgiveness and tried to approach our relationship in a new and more Christlike way. Some responded, some did not. When it came to the "did nots," my resignation still stood. I can't do anything about unforgiveness. I can't do anything about someone who blames me for everything. When does it stop being my fault, and they start taking responsibility for their own problems? I can't do anything about someone who won't help themselves. And my heart became hard. Praise God, I am still growing! The history of Jonah is showing me my resignation has never been accepted by the Lord. I was commissioned to have a broken heart -- and to pray -- for my children from the moment I became a mother. Their failures and foolishness may be painful for me to watch; I may even become so frustrated and discouraged by their lack of regard that I want to quit. Fractures in our relationship may prevent me from being a mom the way I was most comfortable -- sharing meals, conversations, hugs, gifts, attending church together -- but I CANNOT resign. And I cannot allow hardness in my heart. Like Jonah, I cannot stop being who God has called me to be until He says I can stop. That doesn't mean accepting responsibility for anything I did not do; it doesn't mean beating myself up for the things for which I have sought forgiveness (God doesn't want unforgiveness in my heart either). But, that means allowing my heart to be broken for the things that break my Savior's heart, and praying. For them. Without ceasing.

Pain and Promise

"The pains of death surrounded me,
And the pangs of Sheol laid hold of me;
I found trouble and sorrow."

Psalm 116:3. Imagine Jesus singing these words just hours before His murder. This is a portion of the Hallel, a song of praise to to the Lord. A song Jesus and His friends would have sung at the Passover dinner He planned so carefully for them. Verse 4 continues, "Then I called upon the name of the Lord: 'O Lord, I implore You, deliver my soul!'” Is there any fear greater than the fear of death? Death finds us at the hands of another. We are powerless against its ravages and against the means it will use to ravage us. We were not created to die, and our flesh testifies to that by crying out against it. Even in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus pleaded with His Father again and again, "O My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me." Jesus had come to a place where He would give up His life in death, the most human of things this world requires of our bodies. But, He would lay it down, willingly, obediently. When He sang those words of the Hallel, describing the encroaching savagery of death, when He considered the impending abuse His body would suffer, what was going through His mind? When He sang of crying out to His Father, begging Him to deliver His soul, did the tears begin to well up? 

Months before we knew the children would be leaving us, God began sending me messages, messages of hope. Social media, sermons, songs. Hope was everywhere I turned. And I have learned, if He is talking to me about something, I'm going to need it. When everyone said, "There's no way those children will leave," when all the facts spoke out against them leaving, something inside me said, "You're going to need hope. It's going to be difficult, but don't lose hope." I prayed against what I was feeling; I prayed God's will and my wish had been forged in the same fire. But, I knew, His answer would be, "No." At the moment Jesus sang these words, He'd not yet prayed; He'd not yet lifted up His petition in Gethsemane, but I have to believe Jesus knew on some level, there would be no change to the solution for mankind's separation from God. I have to believe He knew He was going to have to go through with it. The answer the Father gave Jesus was "no". God had a plan, and it required His Son's complete obedience, no matter how difficult the circumstances. 

"Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; Yes, our God is merciful." The psalmist doesn't tell us, in verse 5, how God answered his plea. He sings of death, and crying out, and then... "Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; Yes, our God is merciful." Maybe God delivered him right then and there. Maybe God told him, just as He told His Son, "I can't do that right now. It will be for your good and My glory, but it's got to happen this way." I imagine Jesus singing these words, tears streaming down His face the same way they have mine. I imagine His voice cracking as mine has when I have, especially during great pain, raised a song to His inestimable goodness. It's the steadfast knowledge of the kindness of God as it collides with the excruciating pain of circumstances, of what will or probably will be. It's resolute, unwavering faith in the mercy and grace of God as it meets heartbreak, uncertainty, and a desire to escape bitter conditions. It is trusting in the hope we have, believing in the promise of deliverance and victory, but knowing that, at least for now, you are here. At this point. Not lost, but certainly not where your flesh desires to be; not faithless, but certainly not where your spirit longs to be. And the tears fall.

"Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; Yes, our God is merciful."

 

A Miracle Lost

"Two months, three days and twenty-one hours." That was my answer when a friend asked how long it's been. How long it's been since our life was actually together. How long it's been since grief hadn't permeated every hour of the day. How long it's been since I last felt like me.

A miraculous event set us on this journey. A letter bringing the situation to our attention. After some weeks of praying, the miracles were here. Two of them. Sweet, beautiful babies in need of a place to live and some "normal." The simple fact they'd been located and were now with us was a miracle in itself. But, the opportunity to teach these children about God's love and plan for them? It was too much for words. For weeks I wept with joy throughout the day. Having them with us was a tangible reminder of God's mercy for them and His grace toward us. 

As months became years, they "became" ours. -- in our hearts, to our other children and their children, to our friends and neighbors. Sunday dinners, holidays, school spirit and tuck-ins. It was all so vibrant and normal. The encouragement of many uplifted us and love surrounded us. We planned and lived our lives as though it would never end. The agency that employed us repeatedly asked our thoughts on adoption. We never wavered -- Yes! We were told it was imminent.

And then it wasn't. "Prepare the children to leave," I was told days before. There had to be some sort of mistake. On a sunny day, just after lunch, with only a few of us present we said our goodbyes. I would never pretend to know the grief of a parent who has lost a child, but if this is a glimpse, you have my undying sympathy. The first days passed with us awaiting the phone call: "There's been a terrible error. The children will be returning at..." The following week, reality had begun to set. We spent golden sunlit days of Autumn mired in the same despondency as the gloomy ones. Finding toys and crumbs and fingerprints -- all painful reminders of where life had been just days before... And then, not finding them at all. The weeks after that were filled with hours of my inner voice telling me it's time to get past this. "You have other children who need you. Christmas is coming, a celebration of the greatest Gift to mankind. Get with the program! Find the positives in all of this. This is only the life you had before -- stop being so ungrateful!" On and on my warlike optimism droned. And, as life moved forward, so did it's details as well. The appointment with the pediatrician that needed to be cancelled. The mailing list at the children's library that I still haven't brought myself to cancel. The letter terminating our contract with the agency. The bus driver who unknowingly teased me about getting some "free time" without them. The Christmas gifts I'd purchased ahead of time. Every good thing in life seemed to mock my emptiness.

And worse than all of this was my relationship with my Savior. It wasn't the same. It hadn't been the same. I clung to the hem of His garment hour after hour because I knew I had to, but I longed for the days when I would want to again.

Are They Convinced?

The scene closes as the doctor hangs his head. He has said those words no one wants to hear, "We've done all we can do." In this context, those words seem to harbinger hopelessness and even, death. "There are no other weapons, no other techniques at my disposal. I know of no other solutions, and these seem woefully inadequate."

In John 17, Jesus is in the Upper Room with the men He has served and taught for the last three years. He has washed their feet, excused His betrayer, and in this chapter, He prays. He prays His friends would know God through His testimony, and they would remember everything He has taught them, walking in His instruction. He prays they would continue to be sanctified, and He prays for us (!), those who would believe in Jesus because of the word of the disciples. Verse 23 talks about the oneness our relationship with Jesus establishes, our adoption:

"I in them, and You in Me; that they may be made perfect in one, and that the world may know that You have sent Me, and have loved them as You have loved Me."

"That the world may know."  Not that the world might be mildly intrigued by what they see. Not that the world might accept our testimony as an option. But, that the world may know. How can we be held accountable for what others believe or choose not to believe? 

Ezekiel 3:16-21, warns the prophet that if the people are headed for condemnation and he does nothing to warn them, he is responsible. Imagine someone preparing to step into oncoming traffic. They are on their phones, distracted. Are you not going to cry out or reach to pull them back?  You wouldn't merely whisper or turn away in horror until you had done all you could do to ensure their safety. If you grab hold of their coat and they shrug it off and lean into their peril, it's on them. What else could you have done? You did all you could. 

While the words of a TV doctor might reek of helplessness, in the case of Christian witness, giving our all, being brought to a point where we have done everything we could do -- no matter the choices of those to whom we have ministered -- is victory! God's words never return to Him void, without result. And though our intent may be the salvation of others (it's God's intent also), the victory just may be ours. We may experience all it means to obey the Great Commission and to be poured out for the sake of the Gospel. To speak where ears will not listen, to serve where help is unwanted, to love where love is disdained. But, all for Jesus.

If the world is to know, we have to be willing to do all we can. We have to boldly give it our best -- repeatedly -- as though they will know, as though they will choose Jesus with the same zeal of the Disciples who gave it their all, that we might know.