God cries

Last night I held my eldest daughter as her external shell finally cracked and she cried and screamed and mourned the loss of her daddy. Her list of wishes broke me.

I wish I had been there that last night to stop him.

I wish I knew what his last thoughts were about.

I wish he was here for Christmas.

I wish he opened his Christmas presents, because I think he would have liked them.

I wish he had never moved out.

I wish he was here and I could tell him every night that I loved him.

I wish we could go on vacation together again. And museums. And play monopoly. And go bowling.

I wish we could lie down together like we did, and I could put my head on his shoulder, and we could talk like we used to.

I wish he would be there when I got married.

I wish he could be a grandfather. 

And on and on. An hour of wishes and sobs. And I just couldn't hug it away. I couldn't distract her with a joke or a silly face. I had to sit with my little girl as she took that journey, exploring the depths of her loss. I just wanted desperately to own that hurt for her so she didn't have to do that.

It's times like this that I'm convinced that God cries. 

Because if I, her imperfect mommy, who's only known her for a brief time and can only see what's on the outside, is crying with her, than surely her God, who has known her since the beginning of time and can see her whole future and know her deepest thoughts, is weeping beside her too. 

I've told many the story of the time when I heard God speak to me. It was early in our marriage, and the reality of Ross's mental state was becoming more and more terrifying. I had gotten into my car to drive the 45 minute commute to work, and I was crying. I was screaming in my car. Can you see me, God? Can you hear me? Do you know me at all?

And I swear to you, I heard this.

Sara, I see you. I know your hurt. I hurt that you hurt. But you've got to trust me.

This has carried me through many more heart hurting years. And as God is my witness, I have trusted Him. And I believe that His heart was hurting right there beside me. And I have found Him worthy of my trust.

And now I've got to trust Him once again. That He will share in the hurt with each of my babies and personally prove Himself Trustworthy to each one. 

Let...

I feel like I am constantly pushing something.

Like Sisyphus of ancient Greek mythology, I feel as though I am destined to forever strain against an immense boulder as I push it uphill, only to watch it roll down once again.

Pushing my son, my daughters, doctors, teachers, therapists, customer service representatives, cable companies, plumbers.

I just don't trust that if I stopped pushing, there would be any movement at all.

I thought about this as I observed my bean plants pushing up through the earth.

Buried deep, with four times their height in soil packed above them, insanity must possess these seedlings as they push and prod their way to the surface.

This exercise of the will is not for the faint of heart. Not every seedling emerges, after all.

But most do.

And they push and they prod and they stretch.

Toward Victory.

They seek the sun. They push toward their life source. They prod to survive. They stretch to expose themselves. To receive.

I push because I do not trust.

They push because they do. 

My prayer friends and I pick words each new year that God has set on our hearts to meditate upon throughout the coming months. My word of 2014 was LET. As in...

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace....

and 

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly....

Let is an action word. It's a word of acceptance. It's giving permission. It's receiving.

When I'm pushing, am I letting?

Let does not imply a lack of movement. Instead, it suggests reliance on someone else to push the boulder.

Let us draw near to God with a sincere heart..

Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess...

Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love...

Let us not give up meeting together....

Let us encourage one another.

May my pushing turn to letting as we press on toward Christ together.

The Only One

You know what sucks about being a single mom? Being only one person.

You're the front line and the last defense.

You create the rules, remember the rules, uphold the rules, punish and reward according to the keeping of said rules.


When her father declares, she's been picking up some weight, and helpfully recommends that she eat better and exercise, you're the one who needs to follow through. You're the feet on the street, cutting back portions, explaining healthiness versus attractiveness, identifying ways to fit a 30 minute walk into the 20 minutes available after dinner and before showers. You're the one who worries that you are focusing too much on food and fitness and possibly creating a complex or eating disorder in the making. You're the one who has to figure out how to handle every school party and birthday celebration. And you're the one to answer while gritting your teeth, poorly hiding your disdain for the topic when her father asks for a report on the progress.


When her daddy wisely states that we need to screen her cell phone and ipod and review text messages on a regular basis, you're the one to act as deliverer of the news and enforcer of the very sensible new policy. You are the one who faces one more wall between you and your daughter as a result of this privacy infringement. You're the one who has to figure out how to work an ipod touch and access all of the content appropriately.

When your son's school calls, they call your number. You are the one to sit next to your son, and coax him through a project. You're the one who faces the scars on his forehead every day from his repeated self-inflicted beatings during the most recent meltdown episode. You're the one who reports to his father in a quick text "he's had a bad day" but you know that barely scratches the surface of it. You're the one who has had to live in the midst of it. You're the one who spends the night away, and then sees your kid's anxiety escalate in school the next day and wonders, is it my fault? Did my absence cause this?

I think it just plain sucks that I'm the only person.

But the truth is, that's just a big, fat lie. 

I'm NEVER the only person.

My Maker showed me a tree recently so I could remember.

This tree reminded me that there's Someone Else who's fighting right along beside me. 

Look at how that tree defies all odds. Its roots are tightly wrapped around its anchor, its rock.

You can hardly tell the difference between root and rock.

That tree is my hero.

I could hear my God whisper to me, "This is what it looks like to cling to me. When you feel weathered and worn, when the heights seem too risky, when life becomes impossible, dig in your roots and cling to me. Trust your Rock. I am your Someone Else."


When I'm old and gray, I want my soul to look like that tree.

My soul clings to you, 

Your right hand upholds me. 

Psalm 63:8

The Tree of Codependency

Years ago, I received a gift that I didn't really want. A new baby tree - given to us because some family member joined the Arbor Day Foundation. They really didn't mean harm. They just wanted to share the gift of life, I suppose. They also probably knew that my then husband loved planting trees. As the member of the family who mowed the lawn, I was less than thrilled by the prospect of a new obstacle to swerve around.

I found comfort in the fact that, most likely, this young sapling was never going to make it.

Ironically, it survived.

Year after year, I thought this would be the winter that would kill it. And it just kept on living.

Several years into this journey, we noticed that there were two different colored leaves on this tree. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that there were two tiny trunks tangled together. Apparently, we were the recipients of two trees, but never noticed.

Recently, I spent some quality time in my front yard, reflecting on this tree - these trees. Their trunks tightly woven together, their branches splayed in odd fashions, looking more like a short, stubby bush than a tall, beautiful tree. Its growth had been stunted. This tree of codependency.

On the longest of the desperate, chaotic branches, appeared the first and only buds. This cluster of pink hope was isolated and alone among the tangle of branches.

I thought about this sign of life. It felt like a scream of a soul that wanted to be seen.

I related.

During the years of  my marriage, my emotions and spirits and hope were twisted up and tied to another's highs and lows. Instead of being woven together to form strength and intimacy, I was bound to him, as in the ancient practice of foot binding in China. My every thought focused on being his happiness. 

For years I assumed the blame for his depression. 

I accepted the lie that I could be, should be more. 

I curled up inside in a ball of shame as I was reprimanded for not putting him first, for having my priorities wrong, for being manipulative and unconcerned about his needs.

With each criticism, each moment of neglect, each doubt, I strove to be better, to draw closer, to meet his every need. I gave him complete control over my emotions, my ability to cope, my perception of the day. I thought that was being submissive.

I was wrong.

Satan took a beautiful word, and made it my chain. 

But Jesus broke that chain.

Now I feel sad. Not because I own someone else's feelings. But because that's my feeling. As I look upon paperwork with legal terms and spots for signature, I feel sad over the loss, the death of a marriage. But that sadness is mine. 

 Right now, that victory is my pink hope.