Not Strong

Some would say my sister is strong. They would call her heroic. Brave, amazing, all kinds of accolades have been heaped on her head.

I know better.

A few months ago she and her husband made the decision to adopt a medically fragile little boy. He spent most of his life in the hospital. It took a lot of work to get him home but after medical training, paperwork, and a transport across the country they had him.

He’s complex. He’s on a ventilator, eats with a g-tube. A nurse spends up to 17 hours a day at their house. That’s hard. Sometimes though things get complicated and they have to go without nursing care. That’s harder. The amount of time Steph and her husband spend caring for their new son’s needs would boggle any of our minds. They’ve spent time in and out of the hospital. It’s exhausting.

Who wouldn’t assume they’re strong? That they’re heroes?

I think it’s dangerous to think of people like Steph as heroes though. Here’s why. I know my sister. She’s human. Just as human as you and me. Anytime we proclaim someone doing the hard work of sacrificial love as a hero we take the truth out of the equation. We think only special people do special things. We let ourselves off the hook. The reality is God empowers broken people to be transformed by his love and then love others. What Steph is doing isn’t extra. It’s the gospel. 

Don’t misunderstand. I’m in awe of my sister and her husband. They are a spectacular example of the power of love and obedience. But that’s more a testimony of Jesus’ power than hers. She gets tired and afraid and sad. She’s human. She’s not super strong. And that’s the beauty of it. Jesus can accomplish his redemptive work through anyone of us.

She’s not a hero or super human. I’ll tell you what she is though. She’s available. She yielded her heart to Jesus a long time ago. Laid it bare and let God begin the necessary pruning work. She faithfully obeyed him for years, being available to adopt, before she got to this point. It’s not her strength that makes her amazing, it’s her submission.

Be inspired by Stephanie and Justin’s love for little Huck. Be amazed at the power of adoption – love that would take a sick, lonely child and put him in a family. And then ask – what can God do with my submitted heart?

{Loving little Huck is a lot of work. I know if you feel led Steph and Justin would appreciate it if you took a moment to pray for their family as they live in obedience to Jesus.}

Next

He was standing at the counter when I joined the line at Wal-Mart’s customer service. I recognized him immediately. At easily 6′ 4′ and maybe 300 lbs he was hard to miss. He had grown some since I’d last seen him in high school English class. His face had lost its soft contours and was covered in stubble. He had on the familiar ball cap and mud caked boots. With a different set of life circumstances he had the potential to be handsome, a real charmer. But that’s not how life had turned out for him.

We met eyes immediately. I smiled and said hi. He nodded in that old-fashioned country way. His eyes softened in recognition. I turned to my business with customer service. His eyes didn’t seem to leave me the whole time.

When I was done he was still there, standing behind a mountain of a man who must be his father. I smiled at him again and he stepped forward. “You don’t remember me do you, Ms. Gambill?” He asked me.

“Yes, I do, Luke.* How are you?”

He grinned and his massive arms wrapped around me. “I’m good,” he said hesitantly. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew by the edgy glances he shot toward the backside of the mountain at the counter, home wasn’t any better than it had been before.

“Are you still in school?” I asked him.

I had been a parapro in his class last year. He had been sixteen then. He hated school. He hated his teacher. I can’t say I blamed him, she didn’t care for him much either. Mostly he hated life. I don’t know why but he decided he liked me. He wouldn’t do anything for anybody, except occasionally me. A couple of times I’d thought I was going to get caught in one of his rages and have my nose broken. School felt like prison to him. He wasn’t particularly good at it, and he certainly didn’t understand its nuances. School wasn’t a world of opportunities, it was an agony he was forced to endure.

“I’m bein’ taken out, gonna be homeschooled,” he replied to my question.

“That’s good, I’m glad.” I paused. “I work with little kids now, first and second graders,” I told him.

“High school too much for ya’ weren’t it?” He grinned.

“It was a bit intense,” I smiled, “too stressful.” I felt guilty I’d left him there without an ally, for something more manageable.

I turned to go. I didn’t really want to interact with his dad if I could help it, and the middle of Wal-Mart wasn’t the place for a heart to heart. Although I ached to sit down with him and have a good conversation. “I think about you often, Luke.” I touched his arm.

“Take care,” he offered back.

His mother had left him when he was little, but not until she had abused him during drug induced stupors. She’d broken his heart. He half admired, half feared his daddy – who was also harsh and wrathful. His little sister had been taken away. Anger was his default setting.

On the occasions I’d waited with him for disciplinary issues the despair had poured out. In those moments I’d seized the opportunity to share gospel love. I told the story of the cross and the value it put on his life. He listened. He wanted to believe, but God felt remote and just as vengeful as his own daddy. He could barely read, but insisted on using King James when I offered him a bible. Even though he couldn’t believe God’s love he knew I cared about him. It was the best I could do. It wasn’t enough but it was all I had.

Why am I sharing this story? Because as hundreds of kids have walked out of schools this week, protesting in order to promote change in gun laws and school safety, I find it interesting that I just so happened to run into Luke.

He’s the poster child of the isolated, angry youngster with easy access to weapons. I was kind to Luke, but I feared him. He was, and is, a bomb waiting to go off. And I have massive doubts that any random act of kindness is going to diffuse that bomb.

Why is Luke angry? Why is he a threat to others? Because he, like thousands of others in our nation, has been raised in a violent, toxic environment with an angry, abusive parent. Because he’s been abandoned. Because he is failing at school and feels like he’s failing at life. Because he feels out of control.

I care about Luke, deeply. I’ve prayed for him regularly. But I’d still feel better if he walked through a metal detector into school everyday instead of unguarded, unsecured doors. When I worked with him it was highly stressful to think that one word, one bad encounter could change everything.

Kids like Luke have low thresholds. After years of pain their tipping point doesn’t look like yours or mine. He needs WAY more than a few kind words from peers or teachers. He needs a stable home life, academic intervention, and counseling.

When a kid is picked on and eventually cracks it’s usually been a long journey, with lots of baggage, that’s gotten them to the breaking point. Our kids should be kind, but they can’t bear the burden of someone’s mental health on their shoulders. It’s too much.

Kindness is always in order, and sometimes so is social action. Appropriate pressure may need to be applied to get the ball of change rolling.

My kid’s middle school encouraged them to engage in 17 random acts of kindness on March 14th, instead of letting them protest. I understand the sentiment. It’s a great way to remember the 17 who lost their lives just a month ago. But we need to be careful not to tell kids to just be nice and everything will work out. They can, and should, think for themselves and use their voice. Helplessness isn’t a healthy message to send our youth. Kids are impressionable and will make mistakes, but a lot of them are smarter than we think and have good ideas. We should let them join the conversation of school safety and gun control. We should let them join the conversation on a lot of things.

Kids feeling a sense of insecurity at school want to be taken seriously. Kids should be friendlier at school, but is it going to keep them from getting shot? It’s reasonable that they request metal detectors, more security officers, and stricter gun laws to combat the problem. And as adults we should be looking after the Luke’s among us as best we can. Mentoring, foster care, adoption, supporting teen moms, and setting the example of kindness are just a few things we can do to relieve some of the pressure.

Working toward a gentler society is a noble and practical goal. But I’ve met human nature. There will be a next time. Fortunately for us there will also be a next generation. Let’s pull out a chair and give them a seat at the table.

*Name changed  for privacy.

Helping our children prepare for life’s storms

So take a new grip with your tired hands and strengthen your weak knees. Mark out a straight path for your feet so that those who are weak and lame will not fall but become strong. Hebrews 12:12

Recently the tail end of Hurricane Irma lashed our small town. As I write this some friends are still without power three days later. In the night, an oak tree fell on the building across the street from us crashing into a power line, setting a transformer popping. My girls woke up screaming. I calmed them as my own heart raced. Through the night I watched the pecan tree by my bedroom window dance and bow in the raging wind. The oak trees across the street shook their leaves and bent under the pressure of the blast.

In the morning power had been restored on our street, but the effects of the storm were everywhere. In the daylight we could see the oak that had been uprooted and hit the power line and health department across the street. About five houses down an elegant columned home had suffered damage from an oak tree hitting it in the night. So many large trees in our neighborhood had stood, but some had not. And those few that hadn’t made a big impact, taking out power, and damaging homes, as they fell.

Pine trees are notorious for snapping in half in a strong wind. Oaks are often uprooted in wet conditions. In life our children will face dangerous conditions; winds that threaten to snap them, rains that threaten to uproot them. Is there anything we can do to prepare them for the challenges that lie ahead? Here are a few practices that will help ground our children for the future.

1. Don’t hide reality from them. Any difficult news should be explained to children in an age appropriate manner. We shouldn’t try to hide difficult things from them completely, but we can talk about it in simple ways they understand. When a pet dies or a storm hits, when a friend is hurt or relationships are broken it provides an opportunity to share perspective in a child’s life. Bad things will always happen, but how we talk about them shapes a child’s belief system. We can set the example of trust, joy, and prayerfulness to kids when challenges face us, and they will learn to respond the same way. In the storm I prayed with my girls, we thanked God for keeping us safe, we offered our home to our friends without electricity, and we talked about God’s power. I want them to learn how to respond to crisis in their own lives. Framing hard times as opportunities for growth, compassion, and trust will turn kids into victors and not victims. 
2. Teach them to understand God’s word. When difficult times hit it’s important for children to have a foundation in God’s word ahead of time. Part of that is helping them understand the bible as a whole, and not just snippets here and there. Sometimes we run the risk of telling bible stories like David and Goliath in a way that children believe all good guys win, or every bad thing in life can be overcome by a brave person. Yes David defeated Goliath, but kids need to know why. Everything in life is an opportunity for us to give glory to God and rely on him. Sometimes those opportunities come through loss and earthly defeat, sometimes through success. If victory itself is the prize, our kids will be focused on the wrong priority. Only Jesus satisfies, even little hearts. Circumstances are the variable, Jesus is the bottom line. A right view of scripture is crucial, but that takes careful nurturing on our part.
3. Even little people can exercise faith. When bad things happen invite children to pray and give as well. Two Christmases ago my daughter, who was seven at the time, heard about the Syrian refugee crisis. She asked me lots of questions, and I gave her the best age appropriate answers I could. We prayed for the people, especially the children, in that difficult situation. She wanted to do more. The holidays were approaching and I suggested that we could send the money we would use to buy presents to CAMA services to help with relief. She agreed without hesitation. Of course her grandparents bought her gifts, she didn’t completely go without, but she did make a sacrifice on behalf of others. It was a powerful opportunity to deepen her discipleship journey. Any child can be given similar opportunities to respond in faith to the storms of life.

As you prepare Sunday school lessons or teach your own children at home look for ways to frame the storms of life through a biblical perspective, set an example of faith, and provide ways for kids to respond. Life hands us all kinds of opportunities to practice our faith muscle. If we help children to begin that process now they will be better prepared as adults when hit by life’s hard winds to stand and not fall down. 

Ultimately as parents the outcome of our investment isn’t our responsibility. Whether our kids stand or fall in the face of life’s temptations and challenges is up to them. But it is up to us to give them the tools to respond to crisis. If they can see themselves as overcomers now, and not victims, it will go a long way to shape their endurance in this journey of life.

Building a new confederacy

My heart is a patchwork of people whose actions and attitudes have stitched together my own perception of the world. What I’ve become is a bridge. The American story is written in my DNA. I’m a child of the south, the deep south. Seven generations back into the hills and farmlands of South and North Carolina. My mama’s family tree decorated by confederate and revolutionary war soldiers. Proud, stubborn Scot’s blood made for quick tempers and deep grudges. Racism was reality. I grew up with its language.

But I’m also a child of the melting pot. The daughter of a military brat born in California to a Puerto Rican mother and father with a Jewish heritage. Those two worlds created the fabric of my life, and it wasn’t without conflict. The blend wasn’t easy, or natural. My mother felt pulled between her family and its past, and who she was becoming with my father.

As a child I sensed the tension between my South Carolina grandparents and my dad. It’s taken me a long time to understand it. For generations my grandparent’s family had married people like them and stayed put. The coves and hills of the Carolina’s were unchanging. Then my grandfather fought in a war that encompassed the whole world. When he came back they left their tiny town, but they didn’t go far. Later my mama went to Atlanta and married a young man outside the boundaries of the traditional south.

The Civil Rights movement was spoken of with great scorn in my grandparent’s household, and even occasionally by my mother. Mama fought to be reborn, with a new understanding of the world and people, but it was a struggle. She insisted her parents refrain from using racial slurs around us children. Old habits die hard and I could read between the lines. Neither of her parents ever stopped referring to northerners as damn Yankees. It was as if reconstruction was fresh in their minds. The feud was real. I remember as a teen asking my mom if her dad had been part of the Klan. She didn’t know.

I’m not sure if my grandparents ever made peace with the reality that my mother married someone so different from them. My sister and I have acknowledged that our grandfather would have had a problem with her own marriage to her husband of Filipino heritage. So probably nothing really changed.

My grandparents, my mom, and her brother are all gone now. An adult with a family of my own, I live in north Georgia, not far from my roots. I see the south of my childhood through a different lens. I understand now what I only suspected then. To make sense of the present we must be students of the past. The world’s past, America’s past, and our past.

What grabs me most about white supremacy is what a normal face it wears. My Pawpaw was a deacon in his Baptist church, a WWII veteran with a purple heart. The other thing that surprises me about racism is our own surprise by it. Why in the world are we surprised by intolerance? Do we think we have come so far?

In the bible’s account of the first family we meet Adam, Eve, and their two boys, Cain and Able. In a fit of jealous rage the first son kills the second. Murder in the second generation of humans. Those boys were a generation removed from perfection – perfect parents, perfect garden, perfect relationship with God. At the heart of the issue between the brothers is offended pride, a fight for first place, and selfishness. No generation since has been free of the fight for first place, or selfish tendencies that can turn murderous. Not a one.

My family has been a small microcosm of that reality. Who will we love? Who will we preserve? Our own selves, our own family clan, our interests? Or will we consider the needs of our neighbors and future generations as more important?

I could write about the complexities of how we got to this place. I could write about Southern history and its complicated issues. I could write about the way Jesus is used as a pawn by people spouting all kinds of ideologies. I could chastise, rebuke, and scold.

But I won’t.

Instead I will confess. Confess how racism shaped me from birth, and selfishness still chafes my soul like a pebble in a shoe. Confess that I have a lot to learn. Confess that Jesus’ teachings on loving our neighbor, much less our enemy, makes me uncomfortable. Especially uncomfortable given that he lived out those beliefs to the point of death. I confess that I have been part of the problem.

God is not so small as to be America’s God or the Republican’s God or the Democrat’s God or any other group who claims him. The bible tells us that God’s kingdom is one of unity. Where all of creation and mankind are unified under the authority of his son Jesus. God is exceptionally inclusive. That’s not to say all paths lead to God. But all people are welcome to come to him through his Son.(Ephesians 1)

The face of privilege stares back at me in the mirror every day, and I take it for granted. But one thing I’ve learned at the feet of Jesus is that strength is for service. If you find yourself in a position where you have the upper hand, God’s call is clear, reach down and pull others up to stand with you, and when necessary go and sit at the bottom with them until they can get on their feet.  There is no other option if we claim to be Jesus followers because that’s where he’s leading – to the margins, to service, to humility.

I don’t fear white supremacists. Most people aren’t so radical. What I fear is a more subtle racism. The kind that creeps into our churches and relationships so quietly it’s hard to notice. I fear the darkness in my own heart. That’s where this battle must be fought. In our hearts. Where we examine motives, and shed old ideas, and look through God’s eyes. That’s how we fight the darkness. We start with ourselves – in here, not out there.

We have to make peace with our past, but we don’t have to repeat it. I choose a new confederation, a confederation of hearts stepping into the light and being sewn together in love, not hate.

My America

Everyday I walk halls full of young people. I move from class to class, a high school paraprofessional. Para meaning to come along side of; I love that description of what I do.

But first, I step out of my cozy white cottage, where the “rich, white people live,” in my small Georgia town. I know it’s where the “rich, white people live” because a student told me so! He’s also my neighbor.

But he’s not rich, or white. I mentioned this and his brilliant teeth flashed in beautiful caramel colored skin. His smile reached his eyes. That’s my favorite kind of smile.

He’s not black. Or white. He lives in between. When he goes down our street in his old sports car with the loud muffler he slows to make less noise. In fourth period he asks me, “Did you hear my car last night, Mrs. Gambill?”

“Yes,” I say, “but you weren’t too loud.” I say it because I know he wants to be heard, he wants me to know he’s there, but not so loud as to be rude. Because he cares about me. Because I’m his neighbor. Because we belong to each other.

Underneath his lovely dark eyes and perfectly toasted skin I know fragile bones hide. Peal back the layer and you would see them, white and delicate. One day his breath will still in his throat and evaporate, a vapor, exactly like every other living thing. In his veins blood beats the same rhythm as everyone else – do I matter, do I matter, do I matter… the same rhythm as the cruel good ol’ boy with the arrogant sneer in first period.

Everyday my eyes hungrily seek out my tall, caramel neighbor. I’m evaluating, soaking in his expressions, his laughter, the glances he gives when he thinks no one’s looking. Like a mother taking her child’s temperature I absorb the information in a moment. His dad isn’t around. In his brief 17 years he’s already experienced injustice; been pulled over, denied a job, because of his skin. Whether perceived or actual the disconnect resides in his heart. I dare not dismiss it.

I check and worry and observe in order to respond. In order to care.

He’s one of my favorites because he’s nearby. Because he’s chosen to enter in. Because we share a street. I look for him sometimes in the afternoon when I’m in the yard so I can wave when he drives by. He revs his engine in greeting. I feel like I’ve been given a gift.

There are more than the beautiful caramel skinned boy. Dozens more. I listen and take temperatures, emotional temperatures, all day long. I listen to hate and longing, fear and hope. They jostle in the halls. Vie for position. Slink. Dazzle.

On Wednesday, after the election, the rednecks pulled up to school. Their diesel engines growled approval. Triumph. Big Trump flags unfurled behind them. Rebel flags bristled. I wondered if their tires would grind bone as eagerly as gravel. But underneath their skin beats the same rhythm in their blood – do I matter, do I matter, do I matter… One day their breath will escape their throats for the last time. They are my neighbors too. I share the same town. The same space. Some of them speak with bravado, but I take their temperature and I’m not fooled, they’re afraid too. Though, I admit, I question if some of them aren’t afraid, but just cruel.

Not one of these kids is the whole story. The whole story is them, together. They just don’t know it. Most of them have no idea they need each other. They don’t see how they pull out colors, coax out song. It would be dull without the friction, the companionship of ‘each other.’

It’s easy to lose each person’s distinct humanity, their worth, when we paint with broad brush strokes, slap on labels, or feed the mob.

This isn’t Trump’s America. It’s my America. Filled with individuals each created uniquely, purposed to display the glory of un-designed, almighty, everlasting God. Each one an opportunity for love. Including the President. And no one gets a free pass when it comes to love. It’s the ultimate test.

What have we loved?

Self

Career

Friend

Enemy

Family

Status

Stranger

Jesus?

This is my America. Your America. It’s where we love. Because it’s where we are. The kids are watching. Will we be safe, will we listen, will we control ourselves, will we bear the burden of grace, will we forgive, will we gently correct harsh words, will we reject intolerance, will we hope for the best, will we defend each other’s dignity, will we see this moment as an opportunity to love? Will we build bridges, or will we set fire and watch them burn?

Bless your enemies; no cursing under your breath. Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy; share tears when they’re down. Get along with each other; don’t be stuck-up. Make friends with nobodies; don’t be the great somebody.

Don’t hit back; discover beauty in everyone. If you’ve got it in you, get along with everybody. Don’t insist on getting even; that’s not for you to do. “I’ll do the judging,” says God. “I’ll take care of it.”

Our Scriptures tell us that if you see your enemy hungry, go buy that person lunch, or if he’s thirsty, get him a drink. Your generosity will surprise him with goodness. Don’t let evil get the best of you; get the best of evil by doing good. Romans 12:14-21 MSG

Living with purpose under death’s shadow

It’s been a busy few weeks since I last wrote. We moved into our new home just two weeks ago! It’s been a flurry of boxes and painting and nesting. I love it. And I’m tired. Unfortunately we don’t have internet at the house yet, so I haven’t been able to blog. Tonight the swirl of words and thoughts and fatigue insisted I slip away to our coffee shop and put those words down.

I find the images from around the country, and world, from the last few weeks have crammed into my heart and head to overflowing. I don’t have to name the sorrow, you feel it too. From the clash of cultures to the lack of national leadership to personal wounds and grief, we all bend under the burden.

It’s strange how joy and sorrow intermingle, I think I will always marvel at the heart’s ability to consume the sweet and bitter fruit of life, tasting them both in the same bite. I should be so happy! I finally have a home again, after so long. My own home, filled to overflowing with friendship and healthy children and books and truth and kindness and beauty and love. But that old shadow of death stretches long. All the way from the first garden up to my own yard.

We see it in the news, hate casts death’s shadow. In politics, selfishness casts death’s shadow. Fear and want and ignorance remind us we walk under the curse, in the shadow of death.

And strangely, since standing by my mom’s bedside and feeling the tingle of death brushing up so closely to myself, that shadow makes me shiver more intensely. Each terrible piece of news brings the spectral into sharp focus and I have to catch my breath and slow my heart beat. This life is for real and it’s deadly serious.

You and I live in the tension of wonderful moments and heartbreaking ones. How do we remember our purpose? How do we influence our homes and communities and world with hope? How do we shake off death’s dark shadow and live in the light?

First I think we turn off the TV and Facebook. We walk outside and breathe the air. We look at art work the transcends and reminds us of our place in history. We hug a child and blow bubbles and taste good food and pray for a friend and listen to music. We take a nap. And ultimately we go to the heart of the Father who knows the valley of the shadow of death better than any of us. He walked it and defeated it.

The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It’s our handle on what we can’t see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd. Hebrews 11:1-2 MSG

We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline, reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God where Jesus, running on ahead of us, has taken up his permanent post as high priest for us, in the order of Melchizedek. Hebrews 6:18-20 MSG

We are not alone. Our high priest, Jesus, has purchased our freedom and gone before us to secure our hope. He was before Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton and ISIS and Death. And he will be there after. He is how we navigate and find purpose and influence other’s.

As the world catches fire and burns we can smile with compassion, listen with empathy, hug with understanding, and speak with truth. And the truth says we will endure. Because Jesus is our lifeline.

So if you, like me, are tempted to speak with shrill tones or point a finger in blame. If your kids have wide, fearful eyes over dinnertime conversation, if you can’t imagine being friends with that person who thinks so differently than you do, take a deep breath and remember the path through the valley of the shadow of death has been navigated and conquered. Jesus will lead us on that path to overcome our deepest fears and prejudices and weaknesses.

Let’s take that nap and remember to laugh and unplug and go back to the Father’s heart and use words that influence others with hope!

How are you doing this week? Have you felt the heavy burden of this aching world? How do you refocus?