Ladies By Design

Be Still

Oh, day of rest, 

How beautiful, how fair!

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Today I long for green- cucumbers and spinach leaves to feed the body, and  slender blades of grass to feed my soul. Oh, to lay in a clover green meadow and breathe in the breeze, the sky, the voice quietly whispering my name. 

What is stopping me? The urge is strong, yet I work, still. I push through to gain a prize whose name I do not know. The whisper beckons me out into mid- morning. Persistently. I stop working and take off shoes and socks, stepping onto  the grassy slope behind our home. 

The ground is cool, as I knew it would be; verdant, and pliable, warming to my touch. I lean back, relaxing, supported by soft spikes. I feel the breeze and hear a gentle song lilt from the shadow of wings. Pages flap and I wonder:  Why is it so hard to be still?

I stay, cloaked in green, while my eyes adjust to the light. In the distance, cars hum, people rushing through busy lives- and still I wonder. When did I forget to let in that which feeds my soul? 

I've been separated from the peace of this place by the whirl of life. While trying to catch my breath, I forgot what it is to breathe deep. 

Sleepless nights and sick kids may deplete the body, but it is this busy-ness that steals true rest. Now, the habit of getting out into creation takes determination and self discipline. So I sit, and I breathe, and I rest.

 A lady bug glides across wildflowers that sprung up in my absence. Clouds silently swirl across a pure blue expanse. They know how to be silent, to keep pace with time peacefully, without hurry. 

When I've been rubbed raw by life's sanding, I realize I am still learning to rest in the One who sustains and holds, comforting me through rough patches. It is equally important to draw apart when days are filled with activity and the good work of life. To make a habit of being filled with living water before I am run dry with thirst.

I now recognize soul-thirst, and so I stay, drinking in the wildness that has swept down this hill. Luxuriating in birdsong and inviting the breeze to dance on my cheeks, twirling my hair, drawing me into radiant goodness. Dandelions sway, fuzzy tops nodding in agreement to be silent before the Creative One.  I drink deep of  beauty and peace until I am satiated with healing wind and soothing grasses.

Grace floods my soul, simply because I obeyed that still quiet voice that beckoned me to the place of wellness.  I am refreshed, washed in gratitude. In awe of the One who crafted greens and blues and softness and joy which restores my soul. This is healing in it's simplest form.

 

 

The Goal Set Before Us

 When life presses down on me until I feel my heart buckle, I've learned to get outside and walk. Behind our neighborhood is an undeveloped area, and I love to position myself where I have a clear view of the trees and the hills beyond. I walk quickly, reciting Psalm 121:

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
    where does my help come from?
² My help comes from the Lord,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.

Sometimes I speak the refrain over and over, until I can truly take a deep, lingering breath.

The many responsibilities I carry and the frailties of my gaping humanness can convince me to see life as a mountain I must climb, with towering obstacles to overcome along the way. The challenges are daunting, discouraging, and heartbreaking. And my mindset has been this: once I've reached the top, I will have figured out how to "get it right". But the goal is NOT reaching the top of the mountain- for that will happen when I see Jesus face to face. If I re-frame my thinking to embrace climbing the mountain in moment by moment closeness with God- taking the journey in and through him, then I will understand the true purpose of the mountain I call life; to know Him, to let Him draw me deeper still. Part of the journey is learning when to walk with him, and when to let him carry me, for there are steep inclines which this mortal frame was never meant to struggle upon. The key is to let Him do the work, for there are some places that are for His hands and feet only. Aloneness is a choice, and when I choose instead to rest in him completely, rather than holding him at arm's length-- it's in those times when I experience the gift of his presence, his arms gathering me up, sustaining me, giving me rest, healing the wounds in my heart, preparing me for the continuation of the journey. The mountain top is not the goal. Rather, I fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith- whose joy is day to day relationship with me. He is the goal, his presence the greatest summit of all.   

Held

It has been a difficult season. In the past weeks and months, I've felt the need to draw aside and refill, often. The harshness of holding onto life wears on me. I feel the urge to seek out that soothing Voice which hammers out what tears at my soul. I love that he dances over me, yet most often, I need to be held, to seek out quiet moments, to allow the silence to be filled with reassurance and rest. 

Today I began reading in Zephaniah chapter three. Zephaniah often spoke of catastrophe and destruction, of judgement for a rebellious people. Yet, when I read carefully, I find the book is not as depressing as it might, at first, appear.  Chapter three speaks of punishment for oppressors, and their removal from places of power. Nestled within these pages is a declaration of the Lord's great love for his daughters.  

Zephaniah 3:17 declares, 

"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save.

He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love,

He will rejoice over you with singing. 

I love this image of the all powerful Lord God wrapping me in his arms and quieting me with his love. Anyone who's perused my personal blog knows that since November, my family has been walking through the metaphorical fire, medically. As a new year dawned, my oldest son, who has type one diabetes, had two separate life threatening experiences within a few weeks of each other, and only a few weeks ago my husband ended up in the ICU after routine surgery due to a bad reaction to morphine.It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, normal to see a loved one laying on a hospital bed turning gray, as medical personnel surround, trying to sustain life. Nor is it normal for people in scrubs to be running down halls calling out that a precious life is in danger. It tears at my heart just to speak it. No matter how many times this happens it never becomes normal. But what I am grasping despite all of this is that regardless of my circumstances, God has already seen to my needs.

When there is stress, or fear, or grief- and I've know each repeatedly this year- God provides in a myriad of ways. One of which is through the biological design of our bodies. Most notably, our tear ducts, designed as a conduit of release. Surviving trauma of any sort requires the release that comes through the cleansing, salty, stress releasing gift of our tears. When we don't cry, our bodies suffer. In his great love for us, God has provided a way for us to pour out our burdens emotionally and physically. We don't have to hold it in. He designed us to have a way of natural release. No detoxifying spa methods needed. He's already given us what we need, through gifts he created in us from the beginning.

When my son lay in the hospital as "diabetic  emergency" was being shouted through the halls, I leaned over him, fighting back the tears, assuring him that "Mommy is here", taking that comforting stance because he was awake and afraid. When my husband was unable to stay awake, and having difficulty breathing, I was forced out of the tiny hospital room so that medical equipment could be moved in. I was, for the moment, no longer in the role of caregiver. I took a break to relieve myself, and found that instead what came was the relief of tears. 

I sobbed. I wept, I cried out. Release overtook me, and for a few minutes, I simply surrendered to the tears. And then, as suddenly as the flood surged, it ceased. I stood, speaking out loud, words unplanned springing forth, "God, here I am- use me." And the healer of my soul stepped in, equipping me. I returned to the room, and with the removal of the x ray machine, I was able to enter in again. This time, surrounded by the strength of the Lord, filled with his wisdom, and ready to do battle. For the first time in my natural life, I was able to pray over my loved one fighting for life, rather than be consumed by fear and grief. I was able to stay emotionally present in the moment, rather than simply survive.

I placed my hands on my husband and prayed as I'd never prayed before in such a moment- calling down God's healing hands, asking for restoration of breath and life. I spoke the words given to me in the moment- that God is not finished yet, that my husband's time here on this earth is not yet complete. I prayed until the words no longer came, and then, I rested, in quiet peace, knowing I'd prayed in partnership with the Spirit, not grasping my own way. The life struggle continued, and I was held.  Like the daughters of zion, I knew what it was to be quieted by his love. And I am convinced that the conduit which connected me to his strength was my tears.  As the tears removed the toxins in my body (built up through stress), both my body and my spirit found release. I was bouyed up emotionally as I cried out and connected to the One who holds me through the madness. 

In times of stress, fear, and even loss, we have a choice. As daughters of the King we have the privelege to seek out his comfort, his help. When we are hurting we can hold him at a distance and try to survive. Or we can seek the sweet release that comes from a good cry on his shoulders. When I reach out to him, he gathers me in, holding me close. As I cry out, he listens, he sooths, and I find that he is my strength. He is indeed Mighty to Save.  

~Bekah

Shadows or Light?

I lay still, blinking out light. Lenses focus on the fan, blowing shadows across the ceiling. But wait. As slumber recedes I find the gift. If I watch purposely, I see not shadows, but prisms of light. Perspective shifts as I reframe the gutteral response to the coming of day. My life too, holds this promise. I must seek new meaning, letting go of the language of death and learning the tongue of life.  Words are powerful; what I tell myself shapes how I interpret what is real. This is not merely determining whether the glass is half full or half empty. I must shake off emotional slumber, retrain my critical eye to grasp new understandings. Will I choose to focus the lens of my life on loss or on gifts? As I seek healing I understand that now is the time to lay down disappointment, ways I feel wronged. It's time to determine to see the good. I need not look far, for there is much goodness to behold. For every shortcoming surrendered there is life and goodnes to be found in abundance. 

Determination is the key. If I determine to reframe, to focus now on the good, new life will well up within me. It's time to push past the old tapes that play in my head, and turn away from negativity. It's imperative to turn a deaf ear to the enemy of my soul. As I seek to stamp out the old way, he whispers only lies from before. New eyes will seek truth, focus on moving forward, not wallowing in woundedness. What has shriveled in me can grow anew-when I invite grace to rain down. Hope and healing are found in the well watered place, but to see, I must watch for the light. No excuses. Do I want to walk in truth? 

Learning the lifestyle of gratitude requires practice-- a conscious decision to focus not on shadows, but on light. It's not yet second nature, but it can be, through time and determination. And then,then my life holds promise, transformation of mind and heart begun through gratefulness. It's time to move out of the shadows and embrace the prism of Light.

~Bekah

A Time for Everything

I wake to the morning light, feeling as if I am under a weighted cloud. I’ve walked this road long enough to know that what haunts me is not clinical depression. No, there are other diagnoses that name the heaviness in my heart, and I realize that this is very much a place of grieving. My son is no longer growing, and I am afraid. Diabetes is a complicating factor; the treatment is as difficult as the condition. The load I bear increases, and PTSD often keeps my husband huddled in a place I cannot reach. I am lonely, weary of this life of consistent medical deluge. I want to stay in bed, snuggled under soft sheets, blanketed by fear and grief. I push through. Past anger to the sadness. Sometimes life is very, very hard. This is where I am, a place where medical terms crash into real life. I want to learn to live thanksgiving in the midst of the storm.

New life is manifested through conscious commitments to create a new pattern. My journey will involve healthy grieving paired with the giving of thanks. I tug against the process. I do not like how I feel while doing the work. I dread fleshing out what our culture often sees as weakness. Yet, there's another tugging at my heart and I know the truth. I will not heal if I do not grieve.

I remember a story I've known since childhood, from the book of John. Jesus escapes arrest only to have word come, "The one you love so very much is sick." I know this story well. "...oddly he stays where he is for two more days." (MSG) The God-man chooses to stay, so belief within those who follow him can grow. Four days past death Jesus arrives in Bethany. He knows his mission; to raise the dead. Yet he sees the flow of grief, and steps in. Anger and sadness wash over him, marks of the cycle. The Son of Man chose to grieve. Why was there a need to weep when He knew that God had given him authority to raise the dead? To set the standard for healthy grieving.

Our culture often sees strength as resisting tears, yet Jesus' power was shown through them. He continued to allow the cycle of grief as he approached the tomb, instructing, "Roll away the stone." Sisters protested the stench, but Jesus stood firm. "Didn't I tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?" The stone was removed, and standing before the tomb, Jesus gave thanks. "Father I'm grateful that you have listened to me. I know you always do listen." Even in death and loss Jesus found gratitude. An then, in the wake of decay, Jesus called forth new life. On a word and a prayer and a grateful heart, a miracle was borne. 

 Ecclesiastes 3:1 tells us, "For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven." New life comes as I learn to balance grief with gratitude. There is a time to stand at the tomb and work through the loss, and there is a time to be grateful for what been given. Healing and gratitude are entwined with the rememberance that we are never alone. There is One who listens, and One who knows, for He chose to walk through grief to new life-- and more than once. Remember, the tomb is empty!!

~Bekah

 

 

Finding Freedom

I have only just begun this journey towards a lifestyle of Thanksgiving, starting to feel the rhythm of this God awareness in all I see, all I do, and those I hold dear. And then, a day like this... a window slammed shut, not on fingers, but on my heart. Today is a day that no matter how hard I try, I cannot forget the losses and challenges that define the life of a family of four with six diagnoses between us. (Yes, there are now two more.) Diabetes bellows and PTSD hammers at my soul, and I snap. Five years of stress and struggle and spiritual warfare pour out of my mouth, long hidden anger reaches a crescendo.

In One Thousand Gifts, Ann speaks of salvation from angry, bitter, and resentful lives. And this I have learned over time: Anger is a natural cue that something wrong has happened. It's a God given alert to something that needs to be dealt with. Women are taught that anger detracts from loveliness, and when it is repressed until we explode, or carried as a satchel, it does. But the first stirrings, the recognition that harm has been done, that is akin to what Jesus felt when he defended the oppressed and chased the money changers out of God's holy temple. Where we get into trouble is when we hold on to our anger, trying to use it as power over those who've hurt us. Scarring deepens as we chew on anger, turning it over and over in our minds and hearts until that bitter taste has permeated our souls. Bitterness can turn us into resentful, poisonous, death walkers.

What is the cure for this diseased cycle? I know- I remember this lesson, the first learning which began with giving thanks, my own heart cry to him:

I give thanks to You, Jesus, that you chose to hold the nails, to bear my mark, my shame, my loss. You took the weight of my own sin, my every imperfection, and you stayed. You tarried in the place of anguish- so I could have release.

And the refrain that follows, rejoicing, choosing, echoes hope; "Because you forgive me still, I choose to extend that same forgiveness to one who hurt me."

This forgiveness is not an excusing of the offense, such as "He could not help it"... Nor is it pretending I am not angry at the wounding. For I am. And I have good reason. Yet what frees me, what leads me to "Sozo"--salvation, and wholeness-- what looses my shackles is admitting where I am, what I feel, what I judged, and why. And the choice is mine- to be like Jesus or to be like those who crucified him: angry, sullen, sin-sick and clenching hatefulness.

I name this gift aloud, the gift of Jesus... Even on the cross he forgave his tormentors. Not after He rose again, but from the midst of his greatest torment. I am washed in awe at human flesh mangled into a bloody mess, yet crying out, "Father, Forgive them, for they know not what they do!"

This "Sozo" salvation begins with gratitude for what Jesus bore for me. The next step is forgiveness. Faith without forgiveness leaves us still shackled to the oppressor. Not one of us deserves forgiveness. It is a gift. It's been offered. We can choose to do the work to break the chains.

Healing, which I know I still need in hidden places, is worth the work. A ball like tangled string may be buried deep, but my Healer tenderly unearths each strand, unwinding what has knotted my soul. Soothing, covering, restoring. Healing hands are firm, but gentle, rebuilding what was broken, breathing newness and life. Setting the order, the how and the why and the when. Asking me to bend and not remain frozen.

I speak my choice, "I submit to the removing", I pray out each offense, each wound, as He leads. And I choose to walk free.

~Bekah

The Sozo Life

As I set out to practice Eucharisteo (thanksgiving) through pendulum moments of life, I encounter "sozo", a greek word meaning to save. The "Sozo" salvation does not stop at securing eternity. Yes to salvation, to Sozo, is yes to wellness and wholeness in this life. If I have but one life here, one phrase to write, let it be to live fully in every moment from even the most tentative beginning to the final declaration at the end. And if Sozo, our very saving, is hinged on gratitude, then I must choose to allow my life to be punctuated by thanksgiving- even when my plans, my wishes, are crossed out, erased until the page itself is no longer there. When all that is left is a tearing in the parchment of my life, I can trust that God will write my story on a new page. No need to grope in the darkness looking for an instrument to write the story myself. When I give thanks even in the tearing, the Author can pen a better Once Upon A Time.

When I seize gratitude, my life's story is infused with light. Even in the mundane living of day to day repetitions. Even in the living past a loss. When is my life made whole? When I agree to give thanks- in all things, even that which I did not choose. What is it that Ann said in One Thousand Gifts? "Eucharisteo (thanksgiving) always precedes the miracle." Yes. When I release expectation and disappointment and that which has not worked out according to my plans- when I lay these down and gather gratitude instead, then the Miracle can begin. And it has.

My own new narrative began with two words: Thank you, scrolled in soft black ink across the coolness of a blank page. To my husband, who endured war of nations and of soul, and more than once battled the choice of leaving this reality for the next. Yet, he remembered our family, our boys, and the honor of those who served, giving all. And he stayed. He did the work to look pain and death in the blackest of eyes and he shook his head at the darkness, and, despite his scarred heart, he stayed.

And so I move my pen across the page until Thank You is written into my heart. Thank you for the staying. And I listed the ways he shows love to me, ways both little and large. Suddenly I am weeping for those I know that lost love in one blazing moment. I see the grief of the leaving, the gaping loss. I have been a blind woman, caught up in the grief of my own kind of loss; and I lost sight of the miracle of the staying. There are no words. It is time to let go. Whys and wonderings set into that mystery cup, blinking out of tears remaining, and breaths, slow and deep, until I can grasp gratitude. Stillness heals and again I give thanks for my husband choosing life and love and work and healing when years are long and wounds go deep. Thank you, for courage to work towards wellness, for loving me enough to stay when leaving seemed the easier way. Thank you, my love, for the staying.

 ~Bekah

A Cord of Three Strands

The first year is always the most difficult. With any diagnosis, learning a new lifestyle is challenging. There is no normal. Perhaps there never was. I listen to the rain falling outside my window and I wonder at the instruments chosen to teach me a new song. Diabetes, PTSD, Celiac Disease, and Sensory Processing Disorder. A cord of three strands is not easily broken, but a cord of four may break me. It has, in a thousand heart rending, soul restoring ways. The first two were traumatic, the third educational. The last taught me to reframe life as I know it.

That moment, when the word came, all I felt was relief. Surging, trembling relief. This is the why. So many unanswered wonderings, suddenly step into line. My life frame shifts off sinking sand, and I find my Rock ever there. Always. No matter what. The journey through grief is cyclical. It must be for life ever changes the shape of the journey ahead. The path to the altar is well worn.The breath of release pours out. I held my breath for so long, and find I must practice finding breath again. I inhale deeply, in, and slowly out.

And now begins a season of stretching and learning. Expanding my knowledge base, learning how to care better for the ones I love. To fit together each strand in a way that makes sense for me. Again, and again. Often I miss the mark, and look back, with clearer focus than I had in the moment. Some days I cope, others I soar. I've learned to take care of my needs, too, so I can take better care of those I love. I used to be the one that many came to for support. Now I need to draw back and receive. And the Lover of my soul gives abundance, pouring cleansing rain through me. Each day offers a new beginning, a chance to be infused with life and choose well. I choose. I choose to be Wife and Mommy to a passel of specially wrapped gifts. And to refine my own identity along the way. I am more than what I do.

The rain has stopped, the world washed with healing. I too can be whole, if I choose to partake. Will I resist the cleansing? Or step forward, again and again- though unknowns lay before me. If I stay I will stagnate. I can see the step ahead, and I choose to trust in the One who restores, who holds me through the darkness and lights the way. A candle in the darkness, ready to be lit- to move the blaze with each step, illumininate - if I choose to grow. To respond to the invitation and step out, giving thanks for the glow, and the hope held beyond.

~Bekah

My Song, Restored

How did I find my way to One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp? Truthfully I cannot quite piece together the journey. Perhaps it was a friend, a sister, a fellow daughter of the King that gave me direction. Perhaps it was the longing that led me to an online bookstore, where the keys I touched brought me to the place I needed to be. In truth, it was the Lover of my Soul drawing, beckoning, holding me near, inviting me to revel in His words, whispered time and time again, to the very depths of my heart.

Today I found a holy experience at my fingertips (www.aholyexperience.com). The words and pictures hold simplicity and joy, but the beauty that enraptured my soul was the music. I closed my eyes and surrendered. Being utterly filled, I allowed the heart of God to cradle places that were unknown even to myself. Places only He can embrace. As the notes trilled I reveled in His touch- the breath of God, here…surrounding me, teaching me to know Him and trust Him for who He longs to be in and through and for me.

It was not always this way. Over time, stress and struggle and loss stifled my song. Perhaps I allowed it, or perhaps I was simply engulfed,for life as I knew was coming to an end. I had not the strength to protect that which He formed in me when I was lovingly woven together. (Psalm 139) That is a story to be read elsewhere, but here and now I will say that slowly but surely my song was battered and scarred and torn, over time--and I resisted with all the strength I knew. Until that moment when it was shattered and ground into pieces. Suddenly the word forever seemed like a cage, a place of anguish, a haunted never rather than the hope of always. I wondered, would I ever sing again? I could not see beyond the pain, yet I held to hope. Or rather, He held me.

And now, years after diagnoses that I thought would destroy my world, I have found restoration. Hope. And yes, even joy. My song is returning- and the key to unlocking what has been closed off (and tightly guarded) is eucharisteo- life giving gratitude. A conscious effort to see beauty amidst storms.

Have you ever smelled the rain coming? That scent characterizes my life. The scent before the rain seems to be the presence of God; the rain itself, the cleansing that I so desire. The rainbows are the promise that He will be with me. Yet, the song is not just found in the rainbow. The song begins with the scent of rain, continues through the showers, through the deluge, even through the mist that that conceals the steps in front of me. The song is part of His sustenance. I want to learn to hear it when life sprinkles and when life pours. And no matter what is pouring in, I desire that what is poured out is my own aria of eucharisteo.

~Bekah

The Altar

It is unusual for the school nurse to be out on Tuesday, but since we had one day's notice about the change in routine, the school counselor and I met yesterday to plan Tyler's back up care, and I was hopeful that all would proceed smoothly.  We had a plan in place, and it was under control. Or so I thought.

This morning Mrs. Warneke (the counselor) pulled me into her office to let me know that Tyler's classroom teacher, who has taken the diabetes training, and most importantly, knows how to give the emergency shot if the nurse is out, is at home with a sick child. And the paraprofessional who assists in Tyler's classroom and can oversee his blood glucose checks and snacks happens to be home sick, as well. So despite the hierarchy of "back up personnel" for the days the nurse is not on site, it seems that everyone who knows how to take care of Tyler care at school is not in the building today. When confronted with such a situation, I would usually decide to drop everything and spend the day back and forth to the elementary school managing Tyler's care myself. It would be hectic, but I would make sure he was taken care of, myself. But the last few days of the month are the more intense days for my work schedule. Even though I do not want to, I really need to step back and allow the school to cover Tyler's general care today. They can manage Tyler's care at school, and this will free me to take care of all my responsibilities. I will be able to run up there if there is an emergency, but I need to let go of Tyler's routine care and place it in the capable hands of the school counselor.

Mrs. Warneke is a wonderful support. She already had a plan for today's care, enlisting the help of another paraprofessional who assisted with Tyler's Blood Glucose checks on a recent field trip. They are going to work together to cover the normal BG checks and daily routine. She went over the changes with Tyler, and encouraged him to use his voice and "be persistent" if he needs help and the sub forgets "the signal" we've worked out with his teachers.  I am confident in the staff's ability to handle everything, but yet, I am fighting worry. "I'm just a phone call away," I reassured the ladies (and myself). There has been an upset in the way that things usually work, and also in our first contingency plan, and I am finding that fear can easily give way to panic.

Questions pour into my mind like pounding rain. What if there is an emergency? Will the sub know what to do? Will she be able to track down the right people to help? Worse case scenario: What if counselor is out of her office and Tyler has a seizure?  Who will call 911?  

The principal happens to be covering the office today because one of the secretaries is also out. (And my youngest has a sub, too.) A lot of the normal staff seems to be gone today. There are a lot of variables, a lot of unknowns, and what I am finding is that when something in my life seems out of my control, I tend to attempt to exert MORE control over other areas in my life. I want to frantically clean the house so that something in my life appears to be in order.  In such cases, I can find often myself trying to control my husband or children, or the people around me. Or even the cat (good luck with that one!) I recognize the signs, and how I am responding to my worry, and though I feel helpless and out of control, I know that at some point I have to take it all to the altar.

Several years ago, as I was coming to terms with my son having a life altering condition, the Lord drew me to the story of Abraham. The Lord asked him to take his son to the altar; his only son left, for his other son was lost to him, driven away into the desert. Abraham obeyed. It must have been a difficult journey, physically and emotionally, and I often wonder what battles Abraham was fighting in his own mind. Did he have a sense of urgency in his preparations, or did he dread the journey? Did he command his servants with more determination than usual? Did directing his servants in their daily tasks give him a sense of control over something?  Anything?

"On the third day, Abraham looked up and saw the place in the distance."  The Place where his life would be forever altered, in one way or another. God had given him a promise, a promise for his family to be established, a heritage to be passed down. It was a promise that he later learned would come through this son, and no other. Isaac was "The son of the promise." Yet, in order for Abraham's life to be altered, he had to meet God at the actual altar. The altar was a vital  part of the journey to the promise. Painful, but imperative.

As Abraham took the wood for the sacrifice and placed it on his son, did his heart break? Did he wish he could take the burden on himself? Did he wish he did not have to make this grueling journey? Did he wish he could change his reality... to control the outcome? To think that he blindly obeyed, without question, is to minimize Abraham's faithfulness, or brush over Abraham's inherent human-ness.

As humans, we battle for control, yet rarely actually have it. When our reality does not look like we think it should, we often try to control others, yet desperately need to control ourselves instead. Especially when it comes to the people we hold most dear. Yet, control is only an illusion. Perhaps Abraham recognized this. In any case, Abraham did not have all the answers, and he surely struggled with the unknown, but yet, he chose to trust God, and to obey. To surrender control and take his son to the altar.

And like Abraham, I will only find peace if I, too, make the journey to the altar and leave my precious son in the hands of the Lord.

My prayer:

Holy Father, it terrifies me to face unanticipated changes. I confess I am afraid of what could happen. I fear the unknown, I fear difficulties and loss. I do not want my son to suffer. He carries such a burden for one so young.

I come to you and I bring all the worries, all the fear, all the heartache, and I place it all on the altar. I surrender my son, my precious child, who I love, into your loving hands. I give His very life to you and I yield to Your plans and purposes for him. I let him go, Lord. I choose to trust in You, Lord, and You alone.