Truth and War

In the 2011 thriller "Unknown" starring Liam Neeson, Dr. Martin Harris (played to perfection by Neeson) is an American bio-tech wizard who suffers a head injury as a result of a car crash while in Berlin for a series of summit meetings. After lying in a coma for four days, Dr. Harris wakes up in a German hospital to find that he still knows who he is. Unfortunately, his wife does not. Neither does anyone else from his personal or professional life. Without divulging all the twists and turns in case you haven't seen the film, Dr. Harris embarks on a vigilant journey to prove he is who he remembers himself to be. At one particular turning point, his German doctor attempts to comfort him by offering that who he remembers himself to be may be, to his dismay, nothing more than who he wished himself to be prior to the accident.


With the weight of his very identity teetering precariously on his frustrated shoulders, Dr. Harris turns to his doctor and remarks, "It's like a war between being told who you are and knowing who you are." And then with the desperate fear of utter madness closing in he asks, "which one do you think will win?"

Hmmm...being told who you are or knowing who you are? If asked for a show of hands, almost certainly the vast majority of our society has at one time or another been told they are something that, in fact, they are not: Lazy. Stupid. Fat. Incompetent. Ugly. Uncoordinated. Too short. Too tall. Clumsy. Pathetic. No good. A mistake. An accident. While any of these adjectives may be unhealthy or unproductive ways in which we live, they are in no way representative of who we are. 

The bad news is this: we humans are complex physical beings with a complex system of emotions. We thrive (or deteriorate) on relationship, community, and a sense of belonging. And because of this God-designed need for relationship - the Bible tells us that God observed it was not good for man to be alone - we embrace what we are told about ourselves. We soar to unattainable heights because someone believes in us; we plummet to unfathomable depths because another does not. Fragile characters indeed.

The good news is this: God makes it abundantly clear in His Word that human beings were made in His image. We are the only part of all His creation which He referred to as 'very good' (Genesis 1:31), "made in the image of God." An image is defined as 'an imitation, representation, or similitude...; a physical likeness or representation...; an optically formed duplicate'. Look around. What does that tell you about God? God is short and tall; God is blonde, brunette, and red-head; God is freckle-faced and olive-complected; stocky and statuesque; curly, straight, and bald. While we are daily bombarded with being told what we are, it is vitally important that we know who we are. God doesn't make mistakes. In spite of the fact that we often misuse (or don't use at all) the gifts and talents we've been given, the simple truth is that we are who God created us to be.

When I look in the mirror there are plenty of things I don't like staring back at me (and I won't elaborate on them on the off chance that you haven't noticed them). But what would happen if when we looked in the mirror we saw what God sees? Far beyond the physical reflection, what if we could see His image? His likeness? How would it change what we are told we are if we filtered it through knowing who we are?

God gave us an incredible, extravagant gift in the person of Jesus. He gave him in the form of a human baby. In the image of God; in His likeness. I can only imagine the things Jesus must have been told about himself as a growing boy....conceived out of wedlock (shameful and humiliating); born in a stable among smelly animals (you don't really think they cleaned up just because a baby was coming, do you?); raised by a carpenter (not exactly the most prestigious job in town); different; strange; downright weird. But Jesus knew who he was and it didn't matter what people said about him.

You may say, "you're right, Dawn, but he was God's son after all...of course he knew who he was!" Ah, but wait a minute. The Bible also tells us that he was fully human, embracing all the traits (a/k/a weaknesses and limitations) of man. He was thirsty and hungry; He was tired; He felt physical and emotional pain; He was tempted. He suffered. But he kept his focus on what he knew to be true, not what others told him.

At this Christmas time of year, I'm reminded once again that God doesn't make mistakes. He knew exactly what He was doing when he offered Jesus to the world through a tender young woman and a brave young man. And for all the ways He could have chosen to send us a savior, He opened wide the door to eternity through the fragile cry of a newborn.

Being told who you are or knowing who you are? Learn the truth. And win the war.

I Want God to Fix Me

Last week a dear friend of mine shared a post on facebook which, quite
honestly, has dominated my thoughts and kept me awake for several nights now. Her name is Dawn and, coincidentally, we share not only our name but the same birthday month - how cool is that? And for the sake of clarity, she is the younger Dawn by far!

Dawn and I met through our childrens' sports activities and have become good friends. Mikey, her oldest son, has the biggest, most heartwarming smile you've ever seen. He loves to share hugs, high fives, and french fries at baseball games. Mikey is also a special needs young man with Down Syndrome. When our families first met, he called me 'Mrs. Hood'. I laid my hand on his arm and pleaded with him, "Mikey, please don't call me Mrs. Hood - it makes me feel old. You can call me Miss Dawn." He threw his head back and laughed big and hard, then smiled and said, "okay, Miss Dawn." He now refers to my in-laws as Mimi and Papaw and has a not-so-secret crush on our daughter Rachel. {smile}

I am blessed to know Dawn and her family. All of her children - Mikey included - are fierce athletes. Their daughter Ashley has college scholarship potential as a softball player; she also excels academically. Their two younger sons, Evan and Zach, are baseball and football superstars and Mikey, although on a special needs baseball team, far exceeds the physical and mental abilities of his teammates. As I've observed their family dynamics over the years, I've learned that Dawn and her husband Mike rarely make concessions for Mikey. They hold him accountable for his behavior, his speech, and the sometimes belligerent taunting of his sister. Having never spent a significant amount of time around a family with a special needs child, it has been fascinating to watch how they treat him - literally - just like any other kid. Somewhere in my brain I wrongly assumed there would always be the 'making excuses', the 'indulging', the 'oh, I'm sorry'.

My perspective was always based on the family's and the inspiring way in which they completely and totally embrace Mikey. (Although it has never crossed my mind that they would do anything else.) But I never thought about it from Mikey's point of view until last week's facebook post from Dawn. On a regular morning, in the midst of a regular weekday routine in which two parents were preparing themselves for the workday ahead and four children were eating breakfast and grabbing book bags for school, Mikey said to Dawn, "I don't want to be a special ed kid, Mom. I want God to fix me." 

Whoa. Shut the front door. If this were a scene in a movie, the moment would freeze on the big screen accompanied by deafening silence.

My kids have said a few things over the years that have stopped me in my tracks, but what could any parent possibly say in response to a statement like this? Dawn shared that this is a recurring topic with Mikey and also bravely shared how it breaks her heart. Mikey knows he is special needs; knows he functions at a different level and pace; knows he will always live life 'differently' from his siblings. And it frustrates him. More than how Dawn responded to his statement, I've been reflecting on Mikey's simple, innocent proclamation: "I want God to fix me."

We all have things we would like for God to 'fix': finances, marriages, wayward children, jobs, physical features that we label 'too much of' or 'not enough of' or 'just not the way I want'. But when is the last time we asked God simply, 'fix me'? I have to admit, God has really been dealing with me in this area (no, actually it's been more like hammering - I do have a stubborn streak). I tend to look at what surrounds me and want those things to change. The 'If only...I just wish...why can't I...or why don't they...'  Maybe what I need to be looking at is me and what needs to change.

I heard a sermon recently by a man, well into his 70s, addressing this very subject. His text was 15 little words nestled in the middle of Psalm 37, "Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart" (v.4). Dr. Hill put it this way: "if you try to delight in what you desire, your desires will never bring you any delight."  His point was this: until I delight myself in the Lord first (the result of which is a contended heart), my desires will never satisfy me. You guessed it: hammer firmly in hand, nail placed strategically right between my eyes, swing with intent. Bam!

Will God 'fix' Mikey? I don't have any idea. Conventional wisdom, the history of medicine, and DNA would all say no. But everyone who knows and loves Mikey would tell you he doesn't need 'fixing'. Is this a pat-on-the-back, "just give God the desires of your heart, son" quick fix? Absolutely not. I don't doubt for a moment that God created Mikey in his mama's womb exactly the way He planned. I don't question that His purpose for Mikey's life is of any less importance than any other person on planet Earth. Does knowing that make it easy? Of course not. Does it satisfy Mikey's desire to be more like his siblings and their friends? Probably not. Does it explain God? No more than understanding how a clock works explains eternity.

The lesson is for me. For us. Fact is, we live in a broken world. There always have been and always will be circumstances and situations that we wish could be fixed. But how would those circumstances and situations change if nothing changed except the heart through which we look at them? Thank you, Dawn, for offering me a view behind closed doors; and thank you, Mikey, for being you.

I think my Christmas list will be short this year: Dear Santa, I want God to fix me.

Where Are Your Eyes?

A pastor friend of mine was sharing the story recently about an afternoon early in his ministry when he and another minister friend were relaxing on a bench looking out across a church campus. The church was quite old and had gone through multiple building additions and renovations over the years. As with many churches of its day, the cemetery sat immediately next to the sanctuary and so the rest of the campus had been built up around these two original structures. While the two men sat looking out across the campus my friend was letting his eyes and mind wander among the tombstones, imagining the men and women who were buried there. Had they lived long, productive, influential lives? Or in the eyes of the community had their lives been cut short, robbed of opportunity? Had they been blessed with good work and happy marriages? Children? Were they prayer warriors or troublemakers? Interrupting all these thoughts the other minister commented, "Man, I would give anything to be out there right now!" Shocked and more than a little concerned, my friend responded, "Whoa! Wait a minute, brother. Things aren't really that bad are they?"

At that moment each of the men realized what the other had set his eyes on. My pastor friend was looking at the cemetery. The other minister was looking just beyond at the playground.

While Christmas centers on the birth of the Savior, I find myself spending lots of time thinking about Mary. Barely grown past childhood, this tender young woman was chosen to carry the son of God in her womb. Out of all eternity, God chose her.  GOD. And morning sickness, swollen feet, and backaches. I look at my own daughter, almost 13, and wonder: if she came to her father and I with the news that she was pregnant - but adamantly maintained her virginity - and told us that an angel had visited her to announce that she would become pregnant by the Hoy Spirit, what would we say? My first inclincation in 21st-century lingo would be to look at her and sarcastically ask, "Really?" My husband would probably be tempted to look at me and exclaim, "She's your daughter!"

Surely, Mary knew from that first moment of the angel's visit (which probably would have landed me in the funny farm) that a hard road awaited her. Shame, humiliation, gossip, rejection, finger-pointing and murmuring as she walked through town and attended services at the temple. What would the news of her pregnancy do to her family's good name? Did anyone really believe Joseph had been visited by an angel as well? Or was he simply trying to orchestrate a cover-up of his own immoral behavior? Was Mary able to share with her mother her fears, her cravings, the first little butterfly of movement in her womb? Did she laugh or cry when the son of God rolled over in her belly and kicked at her ribs?

In the face of all these questions I am reminded of a simple, yet profound statement made by Mary immediately upon the angel's revelation of God's incredible call upon her life. "I am the Lord's servant. May your word to me be fulfilled," Luke 1:38 NIV.  Mary's eyes were set on her Redeemer, the Author and Finisher of her faith. She didn't question whether or not God was able to do what the angel foretold (as did the elderly Zechariah upon the announcement that his barren wife Elizabeth would bear a son). Mary didn't doubt what God was going to do, she simply asked in childlike faith to understand how He was going to do it. God's messenger answered her and Mary embraced the first step of a journey that brought the world a Savior.

As the calendar moves us closer to the day we celebrate the giving and receiving of gifts, food and family, and the wonder of Christmas morning, let us remember that the most excellent gift of God came through one woman who had her eyes set on eternity.

May the word of the Lord be fulfilled in us this Christmas season and throughout our lives.

Water Skis, Hockey, and Ginger Ale

How do you say goodbye to someone you've known almost your whole life? He's not family (at least not by blood relation) but he's absolutely family. I met Larry Morton when I was 12 years old and he was 31. He was married to a sweet, pretty young woman named Ruth Ann. Our families become instant, lifelong friends. They had moved to the Atlanta area from Canada and my Southern family provided endless hours of entertainment for Mort as he observed our quirky sayings, behaviors, and food choices. He loved to practice his southern drawl on my name, calling me "Daaaaawwwwwwn" then flashing his Santa Claus smile. Mort lived with wild abandon, drove a corvette, rode a motorcycle, water skied, snow skied, and (fill in the blank with every other adventurous outing imaginable). I played the piano and it was not unusual for Mort to buy me a new piece of sheet music and bring it over to our house. One of his favorites was "The Entertainer", a tricky little ragtime piece that I worked hard to master. When Mort and Ruth Ann had their first (and only) child, Nicole, I was convinced she was mine.

Mort taught my brother and me how to water ski at Lake Lanier on a warm Saturday morning in early summer when I was in high school. He showed me how to put my feet in the skis, hold the rope correctly, and lean back. Keeping my knees together and pulling hard when he hit the throttle on the boat, I came up out of the water on my first try! For many years after, my brother and I could not get enough of those early mornings and long days at the lake. Mort, my Dad, my brother, and I would go very early, meeting Ruth Ann and my mom later in the day to eat and hang out at a little cove we discovered. My confidence grew and it wasn't long before I tried to slalom. That's when the fun really began! Many a boyfriend tried to survive a day on the lake with my Dad, my brother, and Mort. Very few made it back for a second one.

Mort and Ruth Ann took me to my first professional hockey game - the Atlanta Flames. I was hooked from the first drop of the puck. Going to the games with them was the only time my parents ever let me stay out late on a school night. The highlight of those games came one night after a tough win and a few broken hockey sticks. I managed to wrangle a stick from one of the crew and Ruth Ann and I walked down to the locker room, waiting patiently for those enormous athletes to start leaving. Ruth Ann stood there with me as I sheepishly asked them to sign the stick, which they all graciously did - every last one of them. With my stick covered in Atlanta Flames autographs, I sneaked it in the house later that night and gave it to my brother for his birthday. I thought Mort and Ruth Ann were the coolest people on the planet.

We introduced Mort to my Mom's hot buttered biscuits and my Dad's famous ham. He introduced us to Verner's ginger ale. It has just the right mix of sweet and burn; I love it to this day. Some of my family's favorite meals come straight out of Ruth Ann's kitchen. She had been a school teacher in Canada and I was fascinated by her stories of how they did things 'up North'. Mort and Ruth Ann were easy and comfortable to be with and Mort was the kind of man who always made you feel better after you had been around him, even if only for a few minutes.

I recently heard a Bible study teacher sharing about I Corinthians 13:13, "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."  He asked what our thoughts were on why love is the greatest. A few people offered up the canned answers: because God is love; because love is a choice; because you can't have faith and hope without it; because ..." And then he explained it in a way I don't think I've ever heard before. He said that faith is something we have here and now that the Bible promises will become sight. Hope is something we have here and now that the Bible promises will be made complete. But love? Love is eternal. Love is past, present, and future. Love will remain love for all eternity. Amazing, isn't it? How a simple, different way of looking at something - even a word - can open up a whole new concept of what it really means. I can't help but believe that God gave me the opportunity to hear these truths just a week before we learned that my dear friend, one of my heroes, is on his way Home.
 
Mort, even now your faith is being made sight. Your hope is being made complete. The love you gave your family and the love they gave you will go on forever. Rest, my friend. I love you.

To Remember and Reflect

Ask any median adult (by that I mean 55 or older) where they were in 1963 when JFK was assassinated and I will guarantee they can tell you not only where they were but what they were wearing, what they were doing, and who they were with. There was no internet, no text messaging, no Facebook posting, no cable news, no Skype sharing. Yet the whole world knew what had happened within minutes. And the whole world was shaken. America mourned the loss of a beloved president and grieved a little boy's sweet, final salute to his Daddy.

Fast forward to 2001. Not since that fateful, tragic day in 1963 has this country come together in crisis like it did on September 11th. Rescue workers from all over the country traveled to New York, DC, and Pennsylvania to provide whatever assistance they could to whomever needed it. People opened their homes and businesses to complete strangers, providing shelter and safety, a drink of water, a comforting embrace. Members of Congress (Democrat and Republican alike) sang 'God Bless America' on the steps of The Capitol. Churches opened their doors on a non-Wednesday week night to host prayer vigils for the dead and their traumatized survivors. Rudy Giuliani, his voice near breaking with emotion stated, "when the final numbers come in, it will be more than we can bear." Somehow that observation stings in my heart and mind more than any other from that day.

I can tell you almost every detail of our lives from 9/11: Rachel was a toddler, still in her pajamas, playing in the den with our two dogs Tiger and Bo. I was still in my pajamas as well, enjoying my coffee while Rachel played. Richard had gone out to run an errand that morning and as I answered his phone call there was no mistaking the seriousness in his voice: "Turn on the TV. Turn on the news. I'm on my way home." Minutes later we sat glued to the TV, trying to convince ourselves that it was air traffic controller error, a horrific computer glitch, something. Anything. And then the second plane crashed into the tower. This was no accident we whispered, as if whispering somehow made it less true. Rachel continued to climb on the dogs and serve them tea from her toy kitchen set, completely oblivious to the fact that our lives had changed in a moment. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing.

We spent that afternoon and evening trying to explain to almost-12-year-old Alex what terrorists are and what drives them to commit unspeakable acts of violence. We tried to put in perspective that God was in those tragic final moments for the thousands who lost their lives. And that it wasn't wrong to pray that the people responsible would be brought to swift and sure justice. Over the next days and weeks, we drove a little slower, spoke kinder words to strangers at the grocery store and gas station, shed tears without hesitation or embarrassment, and made the time to say, 'I love you.'

We engaged in an unparalleled rally of American pride, unity, strength, and resilience. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance with stronger voices, steadfast resolve, and unwavering confidence in WHO WE ARE as Americans. We drew comfort from a president's tender yet unmistakeably strong message of hope. Yes, we suffered a severe blow at the hands of madmen that day. We bore the grief of millions on our broad American shoulders. We endured the mocking humiliation and shame of those who thought they had won the victory. We swallowed the bitter gall of death. But we need to remember there is One who had already done it all before.

For all the men and women who serve and fight bravely every day for our freedom in America, I know the One who served and fought bravely for our freedom in eternity.  He suffered severe blows at the hands of madmen. He bore the grief (and sin) of millions - no, billions - on his perfectly broad, sinless shoulders. He endured the mocking humiliation and shame of those who thought they had won the victory. He swallowed the bitter gall of death. And he came back victorious. He won the battle and He has already won the war. For you. For me. For the world. On this tenth anniversary of 9/11 as we remember and reflect, I encourage you to get to know Him.

His name is Jesus.

At Home...Where it Hurts

In my mid-20s, I was part of a small Bible study group which was, truth be told, probably more of a 'find your spouse' study group than anything else.  We had a lot of fun and spent ridiculous amounts of time together as a group.  Church functions, discovering new restaurants, pool parties, bowling, Christmas decorating, weekend trips, shopping, football, Spades tournaments that lasted for days, New Year's eve parties, and more than a few late night races between those of us who had fast cars (and yes, I was one of them). One particular weekend, very late on a Saturday night, we were exploring how we felt about the serious topic of life.  Everyone had to write on a piece of paper one word to describe how they felt about death. We scribbled on our papers and folded them up, laid them in a basket, and one person began reading all the words out loud.  "Scared", "dark", "alone", "final", and "trapped" were just a few of the sentiments.  Then our self-imposed leader read mine: "peace". 

Now don't get me wrong: I love being alive and want to squeeze every moment I have out of it. A friend said to me recently (in her elegant, slow Southern drawl), "Dawn, I hope when you reach the end of your life, there's no more dance left in you."  Her simple statement hit me deeply as someone who has faced a terminal illness and, praise God, lived to tell about it. I truly don't have a death wish. But as far back as I can remember, I've never been afraid of it.  Death has always seemed to me a warm blanket of rest. And letting go. And peace.

For the past several years, I've had the wonderful privilege to be part of a volunteer ministry at my church whose primary focus is caring for families as they navigate the dark waters of a loved one's terminal illness.  As one of the leaders, I am often the first point of contact for a family after they have been advised by their doctor that it's time to 'call in hospice'. Our small band of volunteers serve as a sort of liaison between the family and hospice care. Many of them have never heard of hospice and don't fully understand what it is, so we help them understand the language of 'end of life' care.  We also help with the daily tasks of life: housecleaning, yard maintenance, preparing meals, laundry, grocery shopping, and day-to-day errands, so that family members are able to focus on caring for their loved one.

There is no time or energy for hiding behind masks here. Grieving before a loved one draws their last breath takes on many faces, and we have learned that no one has the right to dictate how another walks down the path to good-bye. Sometimes they need to laugh so they don't fall apart.  Sometimes they need to vent - and there are no rules about language here. Sometimes they need to weep. Bitterly. Sometimes they need to ask questions and try to answer what is destined to remain unknown.  Sometimes they need to sit and embrace the silence. But they don't want to be silent by themselves. There is an unspoken comfort that comes from simply having a warm body close enough to reach out and touch. Even if they don't

People often ask why we do what we do - especially when they hear about us for the first time.  "You mean you go into a stranger's house and clean their toilets?" Yes.  "Why on earth would you practically move in with someone who's dying?" Because they need us.  "Wow - you guys are weird."  The families we care for would disagree.  There are many answers, and we all respond in our own way. But for me, the answer is two-fold: meeting people at the point of their need is what Jesus does. Not to over-spiritualize or set ourselves up on some kind of pedestal, but for me it is truly that simple. However, a very strong secondary driving force, and probably what drew me to this in the first place, is that I feel very much at home with people who are broken.  Whether they are broken because of their own choices or choices that were made for them or choices that were forced on them, I am drawn to them.

After being unemployed for almost a year (three days shy of one year to be exact) I've been incredibly blessed to begin working with an organization whose focus is providing a safe haven for ministers and their families in crisis. It is a comprehensive, intense program (on average from 12-15 months in duration) which offers relocation, housing, counseling, and childcare when necessary in an effort to provide healing and restoration to ministers and their families who have had to walk away from their calling - as a result of their own actions, or the actions of their home church.  I was initially thrilled about this opportunity because it meant I would be writing - and getting paid for it!  But it didn't take long for me to realize that once again, I'm submerged in an environment where people's lives have been shattered.  Men questioning their failures. Women questioning their marriage. Children questioning their future. 

The vast majority of the time, I will not personally interact with these families. Most of them I will probably never even meet.  But what we are doing is helping them put their lives back together. The 'safe haven' we provide is guiding them to an honest and authentic relationship with God, themselves, their families, and their church. It is a painful process. Peeling back years of unresolved or unexplored issues to face the core of their own souls.  And then to slowly, gently provide the balm of restoration. To help them stand again, scarred from the battle, but equipped with tools to win the war. I can't say I love my job because it doesn't feel like a job. I love what I am a part of. I love knowing that families have a place for hope.

And I feel very much at home.

Guilt, Innocence, and Choice

I must admit, I was absolutely convinced that after 33 days of trial and only 10 hours of deliberation, Casey Anthony's jury would hand down a guilty verdict.  Yesterday afternoon, sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office with my Mom (who fell and broke her shoulder over the weekend), I was absolutely stunned when a 'not guilty' was announced on the more serious Murder 1, Murder 2, and Negligent Homicide charges.  Facebook posts went through the roof, Twitter was all aflutter, and every cable channel except Disney and Cartoon Network provided up-to-the-minute commentary.  One newscaster offering her own particular flair for drama was practically salivating over the assumed guilty verdict just moments prior to the live announcement.

After hours and hours of research over the last two weeks about filicide - the deliberate murder of a child by a parent - I have learned that approximately 400 children under the age of 5 are killed in the United States every year.  That's more than one child every single day!  And the large majority of these precious little ones are killed by a biological parent - not another family member, foster or adoptive parent, daycare provider, or stranger/predator.  Those we are born to trust the most are the very ones who have viciously, violently robbed these babies of life, liberty, and the simple joy of a frozen popsicle on a hot summer day.  If you increase the age of children to 12, the numbers go up even more.  In fact, the most life-threatening risk to a child under the age of 15 is their own parent.

Right about now, you're probably sitting at your computer or holding your iPod shaking your head, wondering what happens in the mind and heart of a parent to move them from the normal, everyday frustration of parenting to not only thinking about but actually carrying out the murder of their own flesh and blood. This can't even be stretched to 'mercy killing', where a parent might possibly argue that death was an act of kindness. No, not by any stretch.  This is the cold-blooded, premeditated, planned and rehearsed killing of a defenseless human being.  Now, if your blood pressure is rising and you're starting to squirm, keep reading.

In 2008, approximately 1.2 million abortions were performed in the United States.  More than 50% of those abortions were performed on women between the ages of 21 and 25.  Cold-blooded, premediated, planned and paid for killing of a defenseless human being.  As much as we cry out for justice on behalf of little Caylee Anthony's murder, had her mother opted for an abortion anytime prior to the birth of her daughter on August 9, 2005 we would call it 'a woman's choice'.  Caylee was murdered and callously tossed away in a garbage bag before she could celebrate her 3rd birthday with cupcakes, lemonade, and girlfriends.  But over a million little Caylees die every year in legal abortion clinics throughout the US before they ever draw their first breath.

For all the outrage Casey Anthony's verdict has brought to the surface, it would do us well to recognize that until we as a people put inestimable value on human life - all human life - we will continue to reap what we have sown.  Selfishness will prevail.  And we will grieve the heart of God who knit us together in our mother's womb.

Eight Years in the Attic

I cleaned out our attic this week.  It's only June - not even Summer yet according to the calendar - but the Atlanta area is already enduring temperatures way up in the 90s.  My goal was to work in the mornings before the heat soared past unbearable.  However, anyone who knows me knows that once I get started on a 'project', it's hard for me to stop.  I'm like a freight train on crack. 

So I climbed the stairs, took a few steps onto the plywood flooring and looked around. Wow. I think there must be something about insulation, duct-taped boxes, and intense heat that promotes reproduction.  Where did all this stuff come from?  I found suitcases, Christmas decorations, papers from previous school years, air filters, clothes, and toys.  It seemed easy enough to begin editing.  I started with broken toys (how did they end up in the attic and not the trash can?)  I then moved on to parts and pieces of incomplete Christmas decorations (repeat previous question).  Clothes that no one in my family will ever wear again, luggage long past its prime, and a collection of stuffed animals that would rival FAO Schwartz brought back great memories, despite the fact that I was beginning to look and feel like I was at boot camp in the desert.

Going through each box with just enough detail to make sure I wouldn't regret our Friday morning visit from the trash man, I was quickly filling the bags beside me.  Then I found it.  The box with Rachel's costume from her dance recital six years ago.  It was an adorable bright yellow top and skirt that felt something like a cross between vinyl and plastic with black taffeta everywhere (literally).  Her group danced to Rascall Flatt's Life is a Highway.  I remember her practically floating down the stairs to show her Daddy after we had the whole outfit perfectly in place, complete with slicked back her hair and makeup. She was beaming and her Daddy was speechless.

Next, I came across a collection of sports cars that Alex collected when he was much younger.  I remember the various Christmas and birthday celebrations when he received them and how he studied them, learned about the make and model, discovered all the parts that would open and close, and proudly displayed them in his room.  His favorite by far was the truck his Granddaddy gave him, a replica of his own. Alex kept a very special place reserved just for that truck and it was very often the first one he showcased when anyone else admired his collection.

With the heat sweltering and my eyes stinging from sweat running down my face, I was about ready to call it a day. My stomach told me it was well past lunchtime but I decided to go through one more stack before descending into the comfort of the air conditioned hallway. I moved a small blue blanket that a family friend had made for Stephen's crib and opened the box underneath where I saw a stack of cards and some computer-printed sheets of paper. 

And I started reading.  "Dawn, we are praying for you and your family every day"; "Please know that Heaven is being bombarded with your name!"; "Our children pray for you and Baby Hood every morning before breakfast"; "So sorry to hear that you must undergo another surgery"; "Praying for you as you begin your chemotherapy treatments"; "Please let us know if we can do anything for you"; "You and Richard are a testimony of God's strength and grace"; "I love your short hair!"; "The Lord brings you to mind several times each day and I am asking Him to give you strength and courage"; "Thank you for your updates by email...it helps me pray specifically for everyone in your family"; "You look fabulous with a bald head!"  More cards.  More Scripture passages.  More prayers.  Countless emails and notes of encouragement. 

I have no idea how long I sat on the floor of our attic reading those precious notes of encouragement, remembering like it was yesterday.  But what really made my heart swell was the realization that nearly ten years later I remain close to almost everyone who sent those cards, notes, and letters.  How it blessed me to realize that these friends and family have shared the good, the bad, the ugly, and the miracles of life with us! 

I was drenched when I slowly, carefully, came down those rickety stairs and closed the 'trap door'.  But my spirit felt uplifted. Encouraged. Strong.

Eight years in the attic.  And still so very close to my heart.

Happy Father's Day - Guest Blogger Jason Brooks

Dawn asked me to write a guest post for Father’s Day about three seconds after I asked her to write her guest post for my blog. Being her friend, and always looking for a chance to add a writing credit, I quickly agreed.

Then I started thinking about what to write.

Should I be funny? Should I be heartfelt? What could be written about fatherhood that hadn’t been written before?

Then my grandfather got sick.

The past couple of weeks my dad’s side of the family has been on high alert over my Pop Harold. He went into the hospital with trouble breathing, only to find out he had congestive heart failure and a heart rate just this side of deadly. The docs were able to get the fluid off his heart, but they weren’t able to isolate the cause of his heart racing, so that meant an extended stay in the critical care wing. Turns out it was a tiny valve malfunction and a blocked artery. They gave him medicine and sent him home on Tuesday.

They don’t expect him to ever really recover. We’ve brought in hospice to help out.

Being on the verge of losing my Pop Harold made think about the three main fatherly influence in my life, and I realized: if pedigree were all that mattered, I would be the world’s greatest dad.

Between my father, Rickey, and my two Pops - Pop Harold (my dad’s dad) and Pop Emmette (my mom’s dad) - I have the kind of patriarchal lineage one only finds when reading Biblical genealogies. Those three men represent the finest collection of fatherly wisdom ever assembled - a Daddy Dream Team - and it is my privilege to call myself their son.

I lost Pop Emmette eight years ago this August. I remember the day he died, how I stood over his body in a tiny ER alcove while the world went to hell around me. Doctors and nurses were rushing by outside the curtain that was supposed to give us privacy, and it was a weird juxtaposition to my feeling as if the world had suddenly stood still. Pop’s body seemed half its size; without his soul to fill it, the skin just sagged.

I spoke at his funeral. I told stories that he had told me, stories that were inappropriate for a funeral because they were designed to make people laugh their butts off. I think I may be the only preacher in the world who intentionally turned his grandfather’s funeral into a stand up routine and had the audience roaring with laughter despite themselves. I remember thinking, in that moment, how much of a gift Pop had given me through his stories. How much of me was bound up in him.

Now, with Pop Harold at home but simply waiting to pass on, I find myself planning to speak at another funeral. This one will be different, however. Not because Pop Harold wasn’t a funny man - he certainly could be - but more because Pop Harold’s life has been more of a mystery to me. Perhaps it’s because I was too enraptured in Emmette’s stories to ever ask Harold for his, or maybe it’s because Pop Harold never wanted to share his stories like Emmette did, but whichever it was, I don’t know nearly as much about Pop Harold as I did Pop Emmette.

But what I’ve learned is different. Not better, necessarily, but different. It’s like having silk in one hand and Egyptian cotton in the other - the texture is soft and wonderful for each, but for entirely different reasons.

Pop Harold has shown me the challenge and majesty of aging. That when people seem to have outlived their usefulness, they still have purpose: to teach those around them about the power and necessity of love and family. Pop’s life has become one final lesson from the Good Book - something he spent years studying - and it’s a lesson that we have learned fitfully, painfully even, but one we’ve learned well. When he is gone, there will be no laughter. There will be tears and plenty of them because such is the depth of our love.

And through all of this has been my own father, Dad, as I call him. In some ways we are polar opposites - he’s quiet, good with money, not artistic in the least - and in other ways we are almost carbon copies of each other. I look in the mirror and see where my hair is going gray in the same places his did, at the same age. I see his brown eyes looking back at me through my glasses. Our hair even parts on the same side (when I part mine).

We’ve never been talkers, the kind of father-son duo that can sit up late into the night swapping stories and telling tales. When we do talk, it’s usually to-the-point conversations, even when we’re just shooting the breeze. I’ve never thought it odd or abnormal because what my father says is so packed with wisdom and meaning that it simply doesn’t take more words than he uses.

Unlike me. I can take more words than three people need. But that’s just what makes him so interesting to me. It’s part of why I respect him.

He leads by quiet example, almost by sheer force. Not as a bully forces, mind you; more like Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird. When my father sets a course of action, his integrity almost compels other people to choose that same course. This explains how he was able to become a vice-president in a major bank without his college degree: he learned everything he could, choose what was right, and got others to do the same.

And then there’s me.

I’m a father now - my daughter, Ella, is 5 and my son, Jonathan, is 2 - and one would think that given the examples I’ve had, I’d be a flawless father.

I’m not.

But even as I make major mistakes, I’m learning that perfection is not required of a father. Nothing astounds me more than when I screw up and my kids look past it. Not in a “we’ll remember this later and use it against you” way, but in a genuinely forgiving way. The more I am with my children, the more I begin to understand things like grace and love and mercy - not just from me to them, but from them to me. I can look into their eyes and see how much they truly love me, not because I’m perfect but because I’m daddy.

That’s a lesson that no one but your kids can teach you. And it’s the best lesson in the world.

Happy Father’s Day to all of you fathers out there, wherever you are.

Lessons on Lesser Things

I love music.  With the exception of rap and jazz, I love every kind of music from 70's rock to classical and everything in between.  Music moves me emotionally (soundtrack, Somewhere in Time), spiritually (Ginny Owens, If You Want Me To), and at times physically (Blackfoot's Train, Train, or Kirk Franklin's Stomp).  This morning was different - I got all three in one song.  Driving home from an appointment with a new eye doctor in one of those rare instances when no one was in the car with me, I was actually listening to my station of choice on the radio.  The song started playing and immediately caught my attention because it opened with a piano solo.  A bit of a haunting melody, I turned up the volume.  And then she started singing.  The first few words grabbed me and I turned up the volume again.  By the time I she reached the chorus I had pulled over on the side of the road and stopped the car. 

I've been hearing a lot about burdens lately.  The cares of this world.  Trials. Storms. Thorns. In general, the stuff of life that pulls us down. Talk to your friends, ask your neighbors, strike up a conversation with a total stranger, everyone is struggling with something. And for all of our "don't get too close; don't ask me to open up" masks and barriers, most people are quick to share the weight of their heart.  Bad times have a way of leveling the playing field.  We all feel a kindred-ness of spirit.  My pastor has been dealing with this subject a good bit lately.  Even our old (very old) friend Job, from the oldest book in the Bible, suffered the unimaginable loss of his property, his crops, and tragically, his children.  His initial reaction was shock and grief, but unbelievably tempered with insight and understanding.  Job 2:10 records these words which Job spoke to his wife, "...shall we accept good from God, but not trouble?"

It's hard accepting trouble.  We are born into this world naked, cold, and screaming.  Someone clothes us, cuddles us, and speaks tenderly to us. And we are calmed.  Expectation established.  In those very early moments of our lives, we somehow develop the belief system that trouble should never darken our door.  Heartache should never touch our family.  Disappointment and frustration should never furrow our brow. But we know, we know, trouble is never far away.  Someone once said that we are either coming out of a valley, in the middle of a valley, or heading into one.  I personally feel like I've been in a valley for quite some time.  Not of anyone's doing or not doing, simply the stuff of life.  Which is why the song I was listening to on the radio hit me right between my frustrated mind and disappointed heart.

The song gave me perspective.  Helped me shake off my self-imposed assumption that I'm being ignored by God.  Even spanked me firmly on my seat of self-pity.  What if, as the song says, God loves us too much to give us the lesser things?  For you, wherever life has brought you this day, in this moment, stop.  Listen to the music and words of this beautifully simple, deeply profound work of art. 

 Blessings.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CSVqHcdhXQ

It's the Speed Bumps

I have a dear friend whose husband is undergoing a stem cell transplant this very day to fight a rare form of cancer his doctors discovered a few months ago.  Turns out, because he is a diabetic, there is a specific protein used as a marker at his checkups.  A spike in that protein marker was the red flag that alerted his medical team to do more testing, thus finding the cancer.  His prognosis is good, very good in fact.  As I shared coffee and a bit of an emotional visit with his wife recently, she said almost in passing, "for all the hassle of [her husband] being a diabetic, it may very well be what saves his life."

When I was diagnosed with cancer almost ten years ago, our midwife found a lump in my breast at my 8-week "well baby" check.  I wasn't scheduled to have a mammogram for several months and there was no reason the midwife should have examined my breasts that day.  But she did.  They could very well have shrugged it off as hormones related to the pregnancy.  But they didn't.  And the pregnancy with my third child  may very well be what saved my life.

After my first surgery - a lumpectomy - I developed an infection at the surgery site.  Our doctor was dumbfounded as it was extremely rare for an infection to occur with what he referred to as a 'clean' surgery.  I was on antibiotics for ten days before we could schedule the next surgery.  Because of the Christmas holiday and a skeleton crew in the lab, there was a delay getting the results.  This caused a delay scheduling the third surgery, a mastectomy.  At the time, we were frustrated with the multiple surgeries which delayed the start of chemotherapy.  After my chemo treatments ended we had a very narrow window in which to deliver Stephen before I began radiation.  The last week before he was born Stephen gained enough weight to avoid going to the NICU.  If there had been only one surgery on the front end, I would have started chemo several weeks earlier.  Stephen would have been born several weeks earlier, meaning he would most certainly have had days or even weeks in the NICU.

We all have had experiences similar to this.  Maybe not cancer, or diabetes, but what about the time you walked to your car and realized you had left something you needed in the house?  You took those few seconds or even a minute to go back inside.  And as you were driving you came upon a horrible accident, one that you could very well have been involved in had you left on time.  Little things like a forgotten item, big things like cancer or diabetes, every day, seemingly insignificant, sometimes frightening or frustrating.  May I encourage you to be mindful of today - and even thankful for - the speed bumps?

Overcast Skies and Shout Outs

Wednesday afternoon following the end-of-school party (see earlier blog, Summer's Dance) Rachel and I walked into the house and I was planning to start dinner - a celebration meal of one of my family's favorite dishes.  However, as I walked upstairs from the basement I was smacked in the face by the realization that the house felt extremely warm.  Here in Atlanta we were blessed with an extremely pleasant Spring and have recently entered the summer days that push temperatures into the 90s.  I checked the thermostat and held my foot up to one of the air conditioning vents.  Everything seemed to be working properly.  Stalling on dinner because I knew the oven would be involved I made a few phone calls, checked my email, and put away some laundry. 

About an hour later the house was still getting warmer and I had a growing concern that we were in for some bad news about our a/c system.  Not something we wanted to have to deal with any time, but especially with Richard and me both unemployed.  By 11pm on Wednesday night the temperature was a sweltering 81 degrees inside the house!  Then I remembered we had a cheer uniform consignment sale scheduled to begin the next morning which meant a house full of moms and cheerleaders trying on uniform parts and pieces trying to save a little before ordering a brand new uniform from the rep.

We decided to go ahead and call our heating and air guy, George, and leave a message so he would know first thing the next morning that we were having trouble.  I was shocked when he answered the phone - it was after 11pm - but very thankful.  He stayed on the phone with me while I checked a few things before concluding that, in fact, we were going to need a service call.  He was planning to be out late in the afternoon on Thursday.  I got up early Thursday morning and opened all the windows trying to move air through the house and was grateful to see that the skies were overcast. 

Consignment sale went well, temperatures stayed moderately comfortable, and the sun stayed hidden behind dense clouds most of the day.  Thank you, Jesus.  Sitting at the computer late Thursday afternoon I looked out the window and saw really dark skies moving in our direction.  Yes!  Rain is coming!  I love, love, love rainy days but it seemed especially welcome knowing that it would carry with it dropping temperatures and breezes.  Boy, was I right!  We had a whopper of a storm - thunder, lightning, lights flickering on and off, and hard rain.

George finally made his way to our house well past dinnertime.  After checking a few things he determined that the pump had gone bad.  Great. How much is this going to cost?  And how long before we have air?  George could tell by the look on our faces that we were near panic mode.  I finally bit the bullet and asked, "how much? and how long?"  He broke into a huge smile and said, "Let me tell you a story."

George then began to share with us that he had installed a brand new, several-thousand-dollar system for a customer earlier in the week.  This same gentleman had bought a new pump last year but when he opted for the new system he wanted everything brand new, high quality, and that had resulted in another new pump.  The guy could easily have sold the pump to someone else or even sold it back to George but he didn't.  He told George to put it on his truck thinking that someone else might be in a jam and need one.  Really?  Richard then asked how much the 'used' pump would be.  George smiled again and said, "you know, I could sell it but I'd rather bless you with it."  Really??  Arrangements were made for the new pump and Richard walked outside with George to pay him for the service call - we should at least pay for that.  George wouldn't accept a penny.

We have been navigating the jagged-edge State of Uncertainty for quite some time.  Our jobs (or lack of), our finances, even our housing is on shaky ground.  I have to admit I've been questioning if God is hearing my prayers or cares that my hands and knees are getting bloody.  What began yesterday with overcast skies as a gentle reminder that He knows, He hears, and He cares ended with a shout out of provision for me and my family.

In case you're wondering, yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.

My Ghost Whisperer

This past Friday evening I had the privilege to walk the Survivor's Lap during the opening ceremonies of the Cherokee County Relay for Life.  My daughter's best friend, Meghan, had joined a team from her middle school to raise funds for the American Cancer Society - the "Official Sponsor of Birthdays".  When we arrived at the high school hosting the event, it looked somewhat like the inner circle of the Daytona 500.  Brightly colored tents everywhere, loud celebratory music blasting from the speakers on the stage, and a huge inflatable birthday cake covered in blow-up candles.  It was a long drive to the school, the traffic was terrible (go figure - Friday afternoon at 5pm), and it was one of the first really hot days we've had here in the area.

I was wearing my "The Chemo Made Me Do It" t-shirt with a pink breast cancer ribbon on it.  The kids and I walked around from tent to tent admiring all the creative ways people show their support and raise funds for cancer research.  Rachel and Stephen excitedly pulled me in the direction of the Survivor Wall of Fame and helped me sign it, adding their own personal touch to my autograph. 

To say that I attend these events with mixed emotions is an understatement of epic proportions.  It is with a deeply grateful heart and tremendous pride that I call myself a 'survivor' and I have gained laser precision accuracy at spotting others in the same camp.  There's something a little different about us and unless you are one, there's no way to explain it.  We simply know each other.  But I have to admit, there is an indescribable pit in my stomach that rears its ugly head when I see a man, woman, or child walking around with the telltale ill-fitting baseball cap.  It forces me to remember.  It smacks me in the face and screams, "I almost had you, too".  And as proud as I am to be a survivor - as strong as I feel every day - it is my ghost whisperer.  An unexpected ache or pain or an unusual lack of energy always provokes the inevitable "what if it's back?" in the deep recesses of my mind.

Thankfully, my kids were with me and Meghan was happy to introduce me to her classmates/team members.  The emcee for the event called all the survivors to gather around the stage and after a beautifully patriotic national anthem, we all sang Happy Birthday to each other.  Rachel and Stephen were on either side of me and before we started the first lap we heard a couple of stories from other survivors who had joined the celebration.  One young man was diagnosed with colon cancer barely a year ago and shared about his treatments and prognosis.  His young wife and son were sitting on the grass as close as they could get to the front of the stage, obviously proud of their warrior husband and dad who was fighting hard and winning his battle.

Then we heard from a young lady (barely 19 years of age) who is preparing for surgery this week.  She has had FOUR cancer diagnoses in the last few years.  Four!  She is a beautiful young lady, full of energy and a positive spirit.  She talked about her cancer as if she were sharing with us her volleyball schedule.  I felt some very familiar emotions start to rise as she shared about the support of her family and friends, and the daily conflict of emotions.  She even made a statement that I remember jokingly sharing upon my initial diagnosis, "I'm too stubborn to let cancer beat me." 

As I was standing there I met two other ladies, Donna and Laurie, who less than a year ago were photographed at the lake together enjoying each other's friendship, their families, and life in general.  And here they stood this night, both diagnosed within weeks of each other, currently in treatment, and bald.  I briefly shared my story with them and introduced them to my little hero (Stephen) and my private nurse (Rachel).  We chatted as only survivor sisters can and then Laurie looked at me and said, "can I ask you a question?"  "Sure. Anything."  She looked at me for a few long seconds and asked, "Is that your real hair?"  I smiled.  "Yes, every single strand of it."  Smiles.  Hugs.  Hope.

We walked the survivor lap, my children and I, arm in arm.  To see several hundred people standing on the inside track clapping, cheering, and waving was incredibly moving.  Tears.  I couldn't speak, and my kids don't see me like that very often.  Rachel held my hand a little tighter.  Stephen put his arm around my waist.  And then I rounded that last curve and looked up.  Meghan was standing there with her team, clapping and cheering like crazy.  It got the best of all of us and as I started to run to meet her, she and the others broke away and ran right towards us.  We met in a huge circle of hugs and cheers and smiles.  And we walked that final stretch together.   I turned around and looked back through the crowd of other survivors.  A few paces back, Donna and Laurie were walking arm in arm surrounded by their circle of friends.  Our eyes met and we exchanged a 'thumbs up'.  New friends.  New heroes.  And a fresh reminder that beauty is often found in the most unexpected places.

Making Space for God

Many years ago, my firstborn and I found ourselves at a local mall on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.  Cold and rainy outside, the only thing on my mind was getting in, getting out, and getting home.  “Alex, start praying!” I called out as we turned down another row to see the endless display of metal and rubber.  I was four weeks away from my due date with my second child and not looking forward to a long trek across the back 40 in order to mark the final ‘x’ on my list.

As we approached the store end of that particular row, a shopper scurried out and pointed to her car, parked to my delighted surprise in the second space!  Thrilled at our good fortune, I flew into the space with laser precision accuracy, threw the car in Park and reached for the keys.  “Let’s go, sweetie,” I called to my son as my legs were swinging out the door.  He looked at me, blue eyes soft and clear like a new marble and said, “Mom, since we asked God for this space and He gave it to us, shouldn’t we just sit here and enjoy it?”

Dumbfounded.  Embarrassed.  Ashamed.  I felt all these emotions and more in a nano-second.  In my haste to move on to the next thing, I had completely ignored the simply asked and immediately answered prayer of a child.  My child, whom I had taught from infancy that God delights in relationship with us and always hears us when we pray.  I surrendered the keys to the floor mat, sat back, closed the car door, and meekly responded, “You’re absolutely right.”  Silence followed.  Alex leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes in great anticipation of the moment before us.  I followed, though not so relaxed, in awe of the dramatic life lesson God was playing out using my car as His stage.

In the midst of the quiet, I recalled the words of Psalms 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.”  Almost laughing, I reached into the back seat, grabbed my Bible, and hurriedly turned to the passage.  Unable to remember the first nine verses it seemed very important to read the complete passage.  To my surprise I found that verses 1-9 are chock full of noise and activity.  And then, in verse 10, our Father calls us simply to “be still and know that I am God.” 

My son and I sat in the car that afternoon for only a few short minutes before he was ready to move on.  But that day, and his stunning observation, has never left me.  In seasons of haste when my heart is anxious, my list of ‘next things’ is long and life is overwhelming, I’m reminded to find a place where I can enjoy a few moments of being still.  God is always there.  And more than anything I can ever do for Him, I know in my heart He simply longs for me to be with Him.