The Fabric of Faith

Sometimes at night after the kids have finally given in to sleep, I maneuver through the carnage of my kitchen, and I am reminded of all that I’m not, of all that was supposed to have been, of all the things I thought this would be like.
A scratch in the paint here. A smudge of peanut butter there. I look around and see a house that never feels settled...a never ending project. Papers and receipts lay stacked in the kitchen basket. Pictures, not yet put away, are stuffed in not-so-hidden corners. Fingerprints remind me that, yes, kids do touch everything, and toys stand alert like little soldiers ready to attack if I dare move them. The kitchen table is a landing space for bicycle equipment, toys, cups, bags, and sticky handprints...the floor a crash pad for the kids. My phone reliably lies on the counter ready to assist me in my daily validation and escape routine. Dishes, crumbs, coffee rings, and kitchen grease, all life’s art work, take their rightful places in my heart while I begrudgingly stow away the remnants of our day. The house has begun to look like my heart, I think. A cluttered mass of confusion and predictable uncertainty.  An Israelite looking for the Promised Land.
Each item I pick up, wipe off, or put away stands as a monument, reminding me of how easy life used to be...that I can’t keep up. I can’t do it all. I probably won’t ever, and the monotony gets to me sometimes. I feel the grumblings begin to bubble up inside my heart, and I wonder when things are going to get easier. I wonder why this faith I thought I had refuses to activate when I need it the most.
What would people think? I wonder.
Would people recognize me as the sinful, ungrateful person I truly am? The woman who wallows in doubt, fear, anger, exhaustion, bitterness, and guilt far more than she rests in the Word? Would they be able to see the same person they see on Sunday morning?
I know the truth.

It’s just too easy to feel like a failure after you’ve scrolled through social media or at the end of the day when, nerves on edge, the veil of exhaustion hides our good judgement and the well of bitterness and resentment looks like the perfect way to quench our thirsty hearts. It’s too easy to lie awake at night, suddenly thinking we have to conquer the universe the next day. It’s too easy to turn to the world to fix our problems.
These setbacks, the times when our faith wavers as much as our children’s behavior often does, these years in our mental and emotional wildernesses, it’s all there to remind us that our walks with Christ, albeit bumpy and rocky at times, are almost identical to the years we put into mothering our children.
You know the Israelites often lost their way, too. "If only we had just died in Egypt," they cried. "Why did the Lord bring us all this way just to starve when we had plenty enough to eat where we were?" Exodus 16:3 Even though they had been slaves, and even though the Lord had proven himself to be miraculously in control, they still felt abandoned. They were in unknown territory. They were weak and naturally sinful. They were human and a whole lot like us.
How easy it is to forget where we came from and what God has accomplished in our lives already. How easy is it to become a self-sacrifice to the idols of our own imaginings. How easy it to forget that God is in control of the plans he has for our lives. Jer. 29:11.
We are a forgetful generation.
This powerful article by Steven Lee states that "spiritual amnesia" is sin. "Spiritual amnesia is a deadly disease that threatens your faith and your joy more than any cancer. It penetrates to the core and rots your heart from within."
I don’t want to forget my faith or my joy.

So, I’ll try to remember the good.
The pesky fingerprints mean kids, that I prayed for, live here. Really truly live. The sticky, cluttered table means people actually eat there. The dishes in the sink mean God provides. The muddy clothes mean my kids play outside. Really truly play. The toys mean my kids play and pretend in their own ways. The dirt on the floor means my son wanted to wash his dump truck in the sink, and the marker on the glass door means my daughter wanted to draw us a masterpiece. The papers and receipts mean God has given me a good, dependable husband to be the head manager of my family. And the piles of pictures? Well, they’re our memories, and they’re usually the last to be put away.
These aren’t monuments of failure, mamas. They’re tests of virtue. Remarkable plans forming into seconds, days, and years. Stories to be told and remembered. Single brush strokes of God’s ultimate masterpiece. Promises waiting to be fulfilled. 

In an article written by Sarah Walton, she explains that "our security and confidence cannot be defined by our children, parenting, or anything other than who we are in Christ. If you are a Christian, trust that you have been chosen and called to parent this child. If the God who spoke all things into creation ordained this in your life, who else’s opinion should steal the confidence and security you can have in his loving purpose for you?"
What a peace-giving sentiment to rest on tonight.
The beautiful tapestry God is creating within us will never begin to make sense until we relinquish control to him, believe in his plan, and allow him to fulfill everything He has ever promised. Up close, looking at our lives with a microscope, all we might see is chaos and blurred lines. We might not even recognize ourselves anymore. Motherhood will do that to us! But from afar, magical wonders are weaving themselves into place with each daily thread God chooses to use.
Each of us has been gifted with our own fabric of faith, our own individual design. All we have to do is believe in the foretold beauty and live confidently knowing God is behind each and every stitch. 

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The Fabric of Faith

The Road Less Traveled

Wow! What a vacation. I wish I could say everything went as planned and that everyone was happy and cheerful the whole time, but that wouldn’t be the truth. At one point, I think every member of the family had shed some tears and was ready to pack up and head home! Between refereeing sibling war, to eating supper in a hail storm, the first couple of days didn’t go as planned.
But sometimes in our family, what you plan for isn’t always what you’ll get.

Here’s a little background story. It’s a story about a girl, a life she envisioned, and the detour God gave her instead.

For the longest, I dreamed of a son who would play ball, run to me after school and share stories about what happened that day, take drum lessons from his Daddy, sing in the choir, go to space camp, take a girl to prom, and be the top of his class. I dreamed of a little boy who would eventually grow into a husband and a father. I dreamed of a man who would lead in church. I dreamed of seeing my son in the paper and feeling all puffed up and proud. I dreamed of graduations and crying over an empty room. I dreamed of watching my son get married and going to the hospital to see my first grand babies.

I wanted to hope for the amazing things that would come. I wanted to believe bad things didn’t happen to good people. I wanted to coast along on the road of life.

However, instead of coasting along, God gave me a detour and I had to become a different person with different goals with different expectations who feels different feelings.

I have cringed when the lady in line at Dollar General yelled at her son to be quiet when I ached to hear Isaac’s first words. I have cried over Facebook posts. I have been jealous over my own daughter for the sake of my son at the ease in which she adapts to this world we live in. I have lain awake at night wondering if my son will ever go on a date, know what it’s like to be loved, live on his own, get married, or ever have a family. I have questioned God and doubted Him. I have died over and over again with each developmental checklist and evaluation packet an inch deep. With mascara-stained cheeks, I’ve driven away from IEP meetings after discussing "the child" and all that he can’t do and should do. I have suffered through every vaccination debate. I have researched and put my hopes in books and cures and diets and supplements and articles until I was lost in a foggy maze of letters and numbers. I have pulled my son out of the Chick-Fil-A playground while he kicked and screamed only to have the eyes of all the mothers glaring at me with disgust. I have heard the words that no parent ever wishes to hear. I have felt cheated and betrayed, exhausted and denied, jealous and angry, lost and confused, sad and defeated, inadequate, and heart broken, guilty and sorry.



But I’ve also felt real, tangible prayers, grace, and compassion. I’ve felt victory after a storm. I’ve felt real, true healing from birdsong on a sunny day. I’ve met some amazing people who genuinely care about my son. I’ve witnessed a relationship blossom between a brother and sister that exists purely out of love. I’ve watched a village of people come together to help us care for and love our son. I more readily hear the Holy Spirit whisper comfort. I notice tastes, smells, textures, and sounds differently than before. I notice the wind, the leaves, laughter, dirt, flowers, grass, bugs...the brevity of time itself...I notice it all, and I soak it all in. I appreciate and value my relationships more. Each day with my family, each small victory...I’ve learned to cherish the mundane, marginal moments most people don’t even recognize as monumental. These moments make up my life, and for that I’m thankful because I’m better than I was before.

Judging by these pictures, you would’ve never guessed things had gone sour on the first full day of being there. Things aren’t always what they seem, though. This vacation could’ve ended terribly. We can’t always do things in a "normal" way when we are all together. Sometimes we have to make changes, and that’s not always easy. It hurts sometimes. Big. Life sometimes feels like we’re tiptoeing around on egg shells. But y’all, at the end of the day, I have to know I tried. I have to know I did my best. I can’t give up. I can’t give in. I have to leave on a good note.
My pictures aren’t here to make you believe we are a perfect family or that we have it all together or that everyone always gets along. My pictures are proof that if you try hard enough, God can intervene and give you joy. He can help you find the good in the worst kind of day. He can change your fretful, angry, heavy heart into a weightless feather. I like to think joy stands for "just one you." We have one life! One life to love and live. One time around to make it count. One chance to reach out and change someone’s day. It can also mean that no one can take your place. You are unique. Loved.
My pictures are proof that we choose memories, and that has made all the difference.
I don’t talk about our story much because for a long time, this world was too big and scary to express with words, and the love for my son was too heavy and strong to reduce to mere social media likes. Fear kept me quiet. In all ways, I had to protect my son, and I felt it was my duty to carry on, keep the faith, and stand firm in the normal parts of life I could cling to. But what’s normal anyway? Seeking "normal" can become a huge burden. A friend told me the other day, "Normal is a dryer setting." This made me laugh because she’s right.
Our story doesn’t have a fancy title written in gold lettering. It isn’t the grand, epic tale on the page. It’s the scribbles in the margin. The half told tale of a subplot not yet unfolded. The corrections. The edits. The revisions. The crossed out places that God isn’t finished with yet. We are a story in the making. A story of a boy, the future God has planned for him, and the unique road God has him on.
I might not ever find out all the why’s, when’s, and how’s while I’m on this road of life, but I’m certain of one thing: It won’t matter once I get there.
We’re all wanting to get to the same destination; some of us just have to use a different map. And that’s okay.
Until then, we are located on Autism Avenue, and you are welcome to come over any time. Please pull up a chair and get to know my sweet, silly, sensitive little boy. Things look a little different around here because it’s not what you’re used to. Sometimes we laugh because we’re crying, and sometimes we cry because we’re laughing. It’s never easy, but if you bring some sour straws, M&M’s, or a tractor or two, I know a little boy who will love you forever.

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The Road Less Traveled