Wrestling with an Angel

The Elisha Foundation Winter Retreat 2012

2012-01-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

There is something serene and satisfying about the Oregon Coast in the winter. The sheer beauty of the state of Oregon added to the craggy beach where waves cover giant boulders with foam and Haystack Rock juts from the ocean like a surfacing whale making a guest appearance on the beach--paints a breathtaking backdrop.

Nestled on the end of this ocean front town is the Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center; an oasis last week for twelve families struggling with disability.

Justin Reimer, his busy family, and an army of volunteers have also descended on this conference center. It is a beautiful array of the body of Christ lifting up the indispensability of the seemingly weaker members. (1 Corinthians 12:22).

We have gathered and we are on guard; because no matter how much serenity is before us, the enemy is always prowling around us seeking someone or something good to devour.

Such was the case before and throughout the retreat as health problems nearly sidelined me from ministering to these special families with the hope of the gospel. Four weeks prior to the retreat I developed a mysterious and nearly debilitating stomach illness that almost prompted me to call Justin and cancel my trip. Once in Oregon I was desperately dependent on the encouragement of friends, the prayers of the saints and the grace of God.

At the end of day one of the retreat I was so discouraged that I wondered if I could go on. A good friend, and the pastor who taught at the very first TEF retreat our family attended, sent me an email containing a excerpt from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress where Christian meets Apollyon on God’s Highway.

Accusations are flung by the enemy and an attack ensues in order to prevent Christian from moving forward. In a dramatic battle, Christian overcomes with the armor of God and the Sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

I finished the email comforted by the prayers of the saints and then poured over the scripture for promises and hope. It came the next morning as I awoke strengthened and ready for the fight. God put three very significant passages and three very strong truths in my head and on my heart.

1. 1 Peter 5:8 Satan is like a lion.

2. Revelation 5:5 Jesus is the Lion of Judah.

3. 2 Timothy 4:17 When the real Lion roars, the fake lion flees.

"But the Lord stood by me and strengthened me, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion's mouth."

That morning was the Parent Talk, where we gathered the dads and moms in a room around a fireplace and let them talk about the personal difficulties that come with raising disabled children. It soon became obvious why I had been fighting this spiritual battle.

I listened as fathers wept over their broken children and mothers clung to the hope of certain promises from God’s word. I heard some couples openly admit to struggling marriages while others gave testimony of rescued relationships. I listened to strong confessions of very raw fear and saw evidence of grace from very real sin.

That night I spoke to the families from Mark 9 where Jesus heals a disabled boy with a seizure disorder, possessed by an evil spirit. We talked in depth about spiritual warfare and its role in our families. I told them to run to Jesus with their most desperate scenario and to be aware of spiritual warfare, but focus on the sovereignty of God in all things.

We ended as couples joined together to pray for their children, their families and their marriages.

It was a long, wonderful, and emotionally draining evening. I was weary from battle, but I found peace and strength in the fact that it had been granted to me on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him, (Philippians 1:29). This suffering was the school where I learned to depend more and more on the God who raises the dead. (2 Corinthians 1:9)

The retreat ended on several high notes as more than one family gave testimony of renewed strength from the gospel and a stronger view of God's sovereignty and purpose in their lives.

The Reimer’s have a very special ministry at TEF. It is a beautiful foundation, set in beautiful locations, building beautiful relationships. But the most beautiful aspect of TEF is the focus on the delivery of the gospel to often hopeless and hurting families. And lest we think that all of this beauty means certain safety and comfort, the evil one stands in direct opposition on God’s Highway to keep that gospel from reaching those who need it most. But we have a strong weapon against the enemy.

Martin Luther got it right,

“And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us:
The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,
One little word shall fell him.”

And so did John Bunyan,

“Now, being refreshed, we resume our journey, keeping a tight grip on our sword.”

(Special thanks to Cassi Jacobs LeTourneau for the photography)

How Will He Not Give Us All Things?

2011-10-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

"He who did not spare His own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?" (Romans 8:32)

Thursday we made the 10 hour round trip visit to Romney to see our son, Jake. This time we surprised him at his school, Hampshire High School. He jumped up and down with his arms in the air and then hugged each of us for the longest time. His teacher, Mrs Sczabo, was so excited to show us everything they had been working on and Jake was so proud to display EVERYTHING he had learned.

We are truly thankful to God for this amazing teacher, the people of Romney, and the Potomac Center where Jake lives. He is so happy and progressing so far beyond all of our expectations.

As we walked the hallways of the high school with Jake, we were overwhelmed by the display of love and kindness towards our son. He is a very popular kid at this very typical high school. Every teacher we met, to include the vice principal, took the time to personally thank us for sharing Jake. "He is such a joy to be around," they told us.

We left the school with our excited son, who was just a little disheartened that he didn't get to ride the big yellow school bus that day (one of his top 10 favorite things to do in life), and carried out our usual strict routine of dinner at McDonalds and shopping at Walmart.

At McDonands, Jake walked up to almost every table in the dining room and greeted the patrons, shaking hands and giving high fives. His non-verbal display of happiness was met with warm smiles and surprisingly appropriate responses.

"He's never met a stranger." I tell them as I follow my son around the tables, keeping a safety grip on the back of his shoulder.

The people of Romney are so kind and patient with our son. Very few people stare in this small town where the two largest buildings are The Potomac Center for Disabled Children and The Romney School for the Deaf and Blind. Most openly embrace Jake as one of their "different" but friendly fellow townspeople.

Jake's true personality shines in this town. There are no outbursts of anger or emotional meltdowns. There is little frustration and no anxiety. The time we now spend with our son is a wonderful experience that bonds our family closer together each time we visit.

On our drive back to Jake's residence we passed by several old houses for sale in the surrounding area of Romney. "Maybe we should just move up here," I said quietly to my wife. "Maybe we should," she replied. "I could work at Walmart or McDonanlds," I half-joked. "Jake would love that."

The drive back to the Potomac Center residential home is usually very quiet and somber. Conversation is replaced with deep thoughts of mixed emotions.

Our strongest desire is to be close to our son, to care for him and to be an intricate part of his life, but he lives 250 miles away and because he is non-verbal, he can't even "talk" to us on the phone. Our involvement in his life is a trip to McDonalds and Walmart every couple months. It breaks our heart to live like this.

However, we are most blessed that our totally dependent, disabled son lives in a small town full of traditional people where he is well educated, well cared for, thriving socially, and loved by all. We could not ask more for Jake than what he has been given over these past three years.

But there will come a time (in about two years) when we will be forced to find a new place for Jake, possibly in some other far off town.

When he turns 21, his eligibility for the Potomac Center and the Hampshire County school system expires. He will never ride the big yellow school bus again. Our hearts absolutely break when we think about how difficult this time will be.

There are no facilities in the immediate area where we now live that are suitable for Jake's care. Even if there was, a move that far would mean a drastic shift in his structured routine. A new place, new facility, with new people, new rules means chaos and anxiety for our son.

All of this separation, heartbreak and uncertainty continually reminds us of of one thing--our desperate and absolute dependence on the One who cares for our son better than we could ever care for him ourselves.

God has proven one thing to us over and over again throughout Jake's life: He loves our son more than we could ever love our son. And what encourages us most is that God's amazing and continual love for this vulnerable boy is not only seen in the difficult life of our son, it is ultimately seen in gospel--the sacrificial death of God's Son.

Romans 8:32 is our promise that God's love and care for Jake will never fail.

As wonderful as Jake's current setting is, our hope is not in the Potomac Center, the Hampshire County school system, or the city of Romney. Neither is our hope in the circumstances of the future.

Our hope is in the gospel of the Father who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for us. With this continually on our minds and in our hearts, we ask the comforting, rhetorical question, "...how will He not also, with him, graciously give us all things?"

All Things Grace

2011-10-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

I'm trying out a new blog called

"All Things Grace".

It will be a compilation of true stories that illustrate the all encompassing truth of Romans 8:28 and other great bible promises.

It is my prayer that this blog will be a tool of encouragement and hope for all of us who deal with (or have dealt with) failure, hurt, discouragement or disgrace.

These stories will be real life experiences. Some will be extremely transparent and raw. Others will be uplifting and humorous. All will be used to illustrate God's fascinating grace and perfect providence in our everyday lives.

God is not finished with your story. He is working in your life in so many surprising and amazing ways. Your failures and frustrations are temporal, His plan is eternal. I pray this blog and these stories will serve as a small window of hope, revealing a bigger picture of your circumstances, illuminated by the brilliant light of His promises.

Come on over and let me know what you think.

"In hope he believed against hope"

2011-09-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

I began reading through “The Bible in a Year” only two years ago. I use the ESV reading plan.

Last year (at the age of 44) I read through the entire bible in 12 months, for the first time in my life. Thus beginning a new way of daily bible reading and devotions that through the grace of God will continue for the rest of my life.

I write this post to emphasize the importance of daily, prayerful, structured, meditation over God’s word. By following a "read through the bible" plan, you will be absolutely amazed how God will reveal Himself each morning as you systematically drink in the scriptures.

You will also be amazed at your daily dependance on this routine. After a few months it will become a habit. The habit will then transform into a priority, and the priority will develop into a passion for God’s word. You will soon awaken to the anticipation of what God will reveal or say to you this new day.

This was the case for me only a few days ago as I came across a very helpful passage from Romans 4. I say “helpful” because only the night before I lay in my bed tossing and turning in unbelief with a thousand impossible scenarios running through my head.

Our son, Jake, is still living five hours away from home. We feel so distant from his life. He must be moved to another facility in two years. Most places have at least a two year waiting list. There are no acceptable facilities available in our area. The outlook for a closer proximity without lowering his care standards seem dim to impossible.
Our house has been for sale for a year now. The housing market has bottomed out in our area. We are currently carrying three mortgages (two on our current house and one rental home) The lurking shadow of foreclosure creeps towards our door each month, and each month it is chased away by God’s amazing grace. Still, we have almost given up on selling our house. And even on a shoestring budget the outlook for getting ahead seems impossible.
I work evening shift, 4PM to midnight. Many weeks I have to work 7 days. All of my kids are in school. That means when they get home, I leave for work. When I get home, they are in bed. I have two teenage boys who really need their dad right now (not to mention a little girl who needs my fatherly attention). I am gone most of the week and I am beginning to see some waywardness in their lives. A sense of parenting and leadership failure is lurking and I cannot find a way to make the situation any better. My work schedule appears impossible.

And so I lay awake, wondering what I will do, what God will do with these “impossible” scenarios. The next morning, during my daily, systematic, structured, meditation of God’s word, I came across Romans 4:17-21.

Speaking to God’s declaration of Abraham’s faith, Paul writes:

...in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist. In hope he believed against hope.

...No distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised.

As I finished reading the passage, I found a treasure of God's gold. I read it forwards and backwards; over and over again as I came to this hope-filled conclusion:

Abraham was fully convinced of God’s promises. He had hope in “impossible” circumstances because he knew God’s glory burned brightest in the realm of the inconceivable. Perhaps he had times of distrust, but “no distrust made him waiver concerning the promises of God.”

If death seemed like the end of hope, then he could hope in the God who could give life to the dead. If the solution to the problem did not exist, then he could have faith in the God who could call into existence the things that did not exist.

Abraham’s faith rested in the promises of God who created the possible from the impossible.

I closed my bible that morning with a prayer of praise, amazement, and thanksgiving, writing this entry in my journal:

I can have hope in the midst of hopelessness because I have a promise in the midst of the impossible. And if death itself should kill my hope, then I can have faith in a God who raises the dead. And if by some human reasoning, the solution to my circumstances is “impossible”, I can have faith in the God who can call into existence things that do not even exist. (Romans 4:17-2)

For His glory and my good.

Amen.

God didn't make a mistake.

2011-08-16T07:09:00.000-07:00

Happy 16th Birthday Aaron

2011-07-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

7-4-11

Happy 16th birthday son.

It was nearly 14 years ago when your mom and I pulled into the driveway of that old farmhouse in Mingo County, WV and saw you and your brother, Noah, standing on the front porch with your suitcases in hand. You looked so small but stood so confidently with that rotten smile on your face.

That smile worried us at first because the social worker who was over the adoption process warned us of your behavior. She told us you were out of control, and maybe even dangerous. I had to wonder how “dangerous” a two year old could be.

We brought you home and that smile of yours won the hearts of everyone in our family. As far as your “behavior problems”, they were solved with the introduction of a little firm discipline and a lot of unwavering love. You still had a rotten streak a mile wide, but most times you were just a little boy, being a mischievous little boy.

When you were three or four years old, I quickly recognized a gift you had for showing love and compassion to those who seemed to need it most. I used to take you along with me to the nursing home to visit the sick and the elderly. They loved to see you coming into their room with that cherub face and that beaming smile.

One time in particular I lost sight of you while speaking to one of the nurses. As I searched the floor for you, I saw you walking down the hallway holding the hand of a confused elderly woman. You looked up at me and said, “Dad, she’s lost, I’m going to help her find where she lives.” We took her to her room and you climbed up on her lap. She thought you were her son from years past. She stroked your hair, called you by her son’s name, and rocked you for the longest time. You just sat there content to let her visit her “long lost son.” We prayed for her and she was so happy. I knew then that God had given you a very special gift of compassion.

Over the years I have seen that gift at work in the life of your brother Jake. I know you sometimes had trouble dealing with all of Jake’s disabilities. He vented his frustrations on you many times, probably because you were the smallest. But you never retreated too far and you always responded in love, patience and compassion. I think that is why when we go to visit him now he clings to you in a very special way. People always remember compassion.

You have also been an outstanding big brother to your little sister, Hope. I always take into consideration that if it weren’t for your persistence in prayer, we might not even have a daughter and sister. You used to pray every night (for years) that God would send you a baby sister. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a little boy praying for a little sister, but you did. Your mom and I just laughed, not even realizing that another baby was on the horizon of our lives. And against all odds, God answered your prayer and sent us Hope. Don’t ever forget that God answers prayer.

You have been a good friend to your brother Noah. It’s quite an honor and blessing to have a brother that is also your best friend. Both of you have been through a lot together, and you have overcome much with the Lord’s help. Do not ever forsake that relationship. Very few men find a friendship like that. Never take it for granted.

You have been a good son. I know I have made a lot of mistakes over the past few years as your father. You have seen me at my best and, sadly, at my worst. I haven’t been as patient with you or as encouraging as I should have been. I have often been slow to listen and quick to criticize. I have spent a lot of time majoring on the minors and picking at the flaws while missing the very qualities in your life that make you uniquely you. I am sorry for this. Yet through it all, you have never been disrespectful to me. You have never judged. You have always loved me with an undeserving love. Thank you for these things.

Now that you are 16, a whole new world is in front of you. You will be driving soon, Lord willing, and you will be a junior in high school this year. A lot of good times are ahead of you. I hope you make the best of them. This also means that you are approaching adulthood. It won’t be long until high school is over and the real world will be knocking at your door. I want you to be prepared to open that door.

So, as my birthday gift to you, here is a few things I wish someone would have told me when I was 16. Some I have borrowed from other great fathers; most I have learned from experience. The bad news is that I decided against the 2011 red Mustang turbo convertible. The good news is, in the years to come, this may become your favorite (and most useful) birthday gift ever:

1. The most important thing you can do is love God and love people. Everything in life flows from this one commandment. (Matthew 22:37-40)

2. Choose your friends wisely, they will influence you more than you realize. (1 Corinthians 15:33) Be a unique leader, not an average follower. Don’t let your desire to impress people make you do stupid things. Be yourself and people will be drawn to you, and respect you.

3. Who you are when no one is looking is a true test of your character. (But Someone is always looking, Proverbs 15:3)

4. Take your time with girls. Set the standard high. Find a godly woman. Look for a woman who most resembles your mother’s heart. She is the best example I have ever seen in a woman. If you find her--or she finds you, she will be more valuable than all the treasure you could ever dream of. (And she will be worth the wait, Proverbs 31:10-31)

5. Live your life in such a way that when people say bad things about you (and they will) no one will ever believe them.

6. Every decision that you make has a reward or a consequence. Your reputation is built over a period of many years, but can be destroyed in one minute with one bad decision.

7. Don’t just settle for a “job”. Find a career where your gifts (of care and compassion) can be used to the fullest. Move towards a vocation where you can live your life helping people. Your reward will be more than a salary.

8. Don’t waste the life God has given to you. You will have less regrets in the end if you do what God has called you to do.

9. Always be slow to anger, quick to forgive and quick to show grace. (James 1:19-20) Remember that Jesus’ death on the cross for your sins was a complete act of undeserved grace. Think about that when you are wronged or when you are treated badly by people. (Hebrews 12:2)

10. Be humble. (Proverbs 11:2) The truest form of strength lies in humility. Here is a good definition of what it means to be humble, “Humility is to expect nothing, to wonder at nothing done to us, to feel nothing against us. It is to be at rest when nobody praises us and when we are blamed and despised. It is to have a blessed place in the Lord where we can go in and shut the door and kneel to our Father in secret, and be at peace when all around is trouble.” (Andrew Murray)

There are many more things I wished I knew when I was your age, but the truth of the matter is, you will discover them as you grow and live. Some will be harder to learn than others, but if you remember and recall these ten things, they will help you with the others.

I love you son. Happy Birthday.

Dad

Brandon Ryan

2011-06-27T18:24:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest personal dividends of sharing Jake's story is receiving news that someone has been ministered to through God's amazing grace. Many of you have been a blessing to me over this past year with kind words and helpful reviews.

Recently I received a very special email from a man named Brandon Ryan.

Brandon is also a writer and has a wonderful blog. I challenge you to read his writing and look into his world. His words are filled with encouragement, openness and honesty--and so was his email. But it was not the content of the email that moved me as much as the "qualifications" of the sender.

You see, when I wrote the book "Wrestling With An Angel" I thought of many different people it might reach.

I hoped it would reach parents that were struggling with the difficulties of raising disabled children. I prayed it would reach people who were having trouble seeing and experiencing God's grace in the battles of everyday life. I hoped it would reach the lost with the light of the gospel.

But honestly, and perhaps ironically, I never even thought of Jake's story ministering to someone with severe disabilities. I am more than a little shamed by my shallowness.

The true miracle of any ministry lies in the mystery of our Father's great wisdom and amazing grace. God has a way of going beyond the meager capabilities of our words and intentions, sprinkling them with His power, and using them to reach exactly those He has in mind:

My name is Brandon Ryan,

I'd like to share with you some ways that your book “Wrestling With an Angel” has effected my life. You see, I was born with Cerebral Palsy. Doctors told my parents that I'd never be able to do everyday functions such as feeding myself or dressing myself, let alone giving me much of a chance to live.

Much like life with your son, my parents had to wake in the early mornings of the day to get me dressed for school. I remember how much time that would take.

I really saw myself in two scenes in your book, one was where you were giving your son a bath, and he rested in the water with a smile on his face. That is something that I'd look forward to, that and playing with toys in the water.

Secondly, I know all about people staring, and giving you a once over. To this day, being twenty-six years old, people still do that to me. And yes, I can say that it sometimes has an effect on me still.

I fell in love with the way you loved your son, along with your wife and family. My father spent twenty-one years in the AirForce, as well as an ex amount of years as a police officer, my mother spent twenty some years doing home daycare. Where now she and my father take care of a mentally handicapped man, who really is about two years old at the end of the day.

As I read through your story, it made me sense that the Lord was and is working on widening my heart.

All I can truly say is thank you Greg, for creating this work.

Brandon

Thank YOU Brandon!

The Man Who Was My Father

2011-06-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” Micah 6:8

My grandfather drove a semi truck for nearly 30 years. When he retired they gave him a cheap wristwatch with a picture of an 18 wheeler on it, and a safety certificate for never having an accident on the road. He cherished them both.

Then, when he reached the age when most men are counting their 401k’s and planning paradise retreats to Disney Land lifestyles, he made the decision to bring three more children into his house and raise them as his own. Instead of retiring, he started all over again.

I was two years old when I came to live with my grandparents. They always seemed old to me. The generation gap was very difficult at times, especially when I reached the rebellious teenage years. But my grandfather was a rock of steadfast faithfulness and every decision he made fell from the standard of God’s word.

He kept his entire theological library by his living room chair--a KJV bible and a Strong's Concordance--but he never used God’s word to beat or berate, only to comfort, warn and encourage.

I remember one day (in my wise teenage years) arguing from scripture that long hair was both Christ-like and biblical. I justified that Samson had long hair and it made him strong. My grandfather gently picked up his bible, opened it to 1 Corinthians 11:14 and read, “Doth not even nature itself teach you, that, if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him?” He then read me the end of the story of Samson and closed his bible without saying another word. I quietly walked away from our “conversation” with a deep respect for the sufficiency of scripture for all things.

My grandfather looked like Abraham Lincoln without a beard. He was the most masculinely tender man I have ever known and the closest to Christ-likeness of any man I have ever watched. And I watched him all the time.

I watched him every Sunday morning from the back seat of his old Chevrolet Impala as he drove us to church. He always sang along with the gospel quartets on the radio as he drove across town. And he always cried as he sang. Every Sunday morning that I can remember, he cried on the way to church. I cried on the way to church because I would have rather been going someplace else. He cried with a longing to be someplace else too, someplace heavenly with his Savior. He lived his life in eager expectation of heaven and made very few investments on this earth that did not have eternity as a dividend.

I watched him stop on the way to church every Sunday to pick up an older lady and sometimes her disabled adult son. She rode to church with us for years. Sometimes the car was uncomfortably packed with passengers. I have no doubt that if my grandfather would have owned a bus it would have been full every Sunday morning.

I watched him pastor and preach at an old time fundamental United Baptist Church where the preachers were known for shouting, screaming, foaming and fuming with a hiccup-like cadence that I could never understand. My grandfather opened his bible and spoke gently, plainly, clearly, humbly and profoundly. Some of the first words from the gospel that sank deep into my heart came from his preaching.

He loved telling the stories of Lazarus being raised from the dead and Paul's Damascus Road conversion. I think these biblical accounts were most like his own resurrection story. He also told me about his life before Christ, about nearly dying from drinking tainted pure grain alcohol, rolling his car over a hill and coming home on more than one occasion bloody, beaten and drunk. He said he was “mean as a snake” before the Lord got hold of him. He was profoundly changed by the gospel.

I watched him as he visited the sick, the dying and the destitute--not just as a pastor, but as a person. I remember one day watching him open the front door of our house to greet the mail lady as she dropped off the morning mail. He asked her how she was doing and she replied, “I’m ok.” He pressed a little deeper, “How are you really doing?” She then paused and began to cry. I watched from our living room as he brought her into the house, sat her in his chair and listened to the difficulty of her life, consoling her with bible passages and hope. He listened so intently and cared so deeply.

He met the garbage men every week with a cold drink and a sincere short discussion about their day. It was difficult to go anywhere with my grandfather because he carried on deep conversations with everyone, from the pharmacist to the clerk at the grocery store to the janitor in the shopping center. But he didn’t just talk, he listened intently to everyone. He always had a cool glass of water for thirsty souls.

My grandfather was kind and humble, but he was also a sheepdog when it came to his family. I remember one night a drunk man came to our back door and tried to get into our house. The man was not trying to break in, he was only confused as to which house he was going to. My grandfather met him in the doorway with a pistol, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and ushered him to the street. He never said a vile word to the man, but he let him know that this was not the house he was looking for.

I watched him struggle with prostate and bladder cancer for nearly 20 years, enduring radiation treatments several times a year. The doctors visits were a steady part of his routine schedule for as long as I knew him. But the cancer never daunted his joy and I never once heard him complain. Going to the doctor meant he got the opportunity to talk to people. Every six months he was hospitalized to scrape tumors off the inside wall of his bladder. The nurses knew him by name and looked forward to taking care of him. He, in turn, considered his hospital visits as an opportunity to care for their souls.

I also watched him faithfully and dearly love my grandmother till the day she died. They were married for 56 years and he loved her passionately to the end. Then, six months almost to the day that she died, he went to be with her and Jesus. And I watched him die well. Even in the hospital during his last days, he was encouraging the doctors and nurses with hope from his bible.

His death impacted me as much as his life. I remember the night before he died kneeling at his bedside and asking God to give me a double portion of my grandfather’s spirit. I think that is a biblical request and the most honoring thing a son could ever ask to share with his father.

It has been nearly 17 years since my grandfather died and still no man has influenced my life like this humble, gentle, Christ-like father. He taught me how to be a man, to love my wife and raise my children. He instilled in me a deep love and respect for the bible as I watched him impact his entire world with a "hands on" gospel, one investment--one person at a time. He taught me that there are no insignificant people on this earth. “Everyone matters to God, so everyone matters.”

I often find myself thinking about what a truly exceptional Christian life looks like and then trying my futile best to match up to it. Is it reaching hundreds or thousands with the gospel? Is it pastoring a mega church? Is it compiling a library of solid theology or writing volumes of books? Perhaps it has something to do with how many followers you have on your blog or Twitter account?

Then I look at the life of my grandfather. He had an 8th grade education, owned two books, drove a truck for 30 years, was married to the same woman for 56 years, raised three children and then three grandchildren, and pastored a church of less than 70 people. He lived humbly, loved hard, laughed often, cared deeply and died well.

He also owned a watch with an 18 wheeler on it and a safety certificate for never having an accident on the road. Pretty good accomplishments for an exceptional life if you ask me.

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” Micah 6:8

John Piper Interviews John Knight on Disability

2011-06-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

Speaking from deep personal experience-- John Knight takes on the difficult issues of God's design in disability.

This Solid Rock

2011-05-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

“That’s a big rock”, she said looking skyward—in the best way a five year old could reflect on bigness.

It was indeed a big rock, even to the eyes of a middle-aged man, who had observed and scaled his share of geological structures over a rather adventurous half-life. It appeared as if it had fallen out of the sky, rather than simply jutting out of the ground. It stuck in the side of the hill tapered downward like an upside-down pyramid

I could best describe this place as a craggy island in the plush forest, but the enormity of this stone was not as much in its size as it was in its symbolism.

“I don’t think…I can climb up there”, she said as she stooped to pick up a small twig, using it as a pointer to extend her expression towards the rock face. “I will carry you.” I replied. She looked at me with rather cautious eyes countering my offer with, “I don’t think that is a good idea”.

I smiled at her cynical logic. My young daughter has an old soul locked away inside of her tiny body--a prophetic sort of wisdom that is beyond her few short years and small stature.

“But I have something I want to show you. It will be worth the risk.” I negotiated, as I scooped her off the ground and swung her onto my back in one swift, playful motion. She squealed and laughed and then clamped her arms tightly around my neck.

We started up the small goat-path through the crevice in the rock. It was only about 30 feet high, but it might as well have been Mount Everest to my tiny passenger. The vertical face of the obstacle before us was cliff-like in structure and the top was flat like a tabletop. The pathway zigzagged to the side of the stone through a few smaller structures and then turned completely to the rock. It was quite a challenge just to climb the path, and then just before reaching the top, some amateur rock face climbing skill was needed.

“Are…you…sure…this is safe?” she asked as I clung to a sapling with one hand and the side of the rock with the other. “Who said anything about being safe?” I joked as my voice strained under the exertion. “We are almost there.”

As I crested the top of the rock, I crawled to the center of the tabletop and sat down on my backside. She loosened her grip from my neck and slid off my back sitting on the rock beside me. “Wow!” she said in an excited whisper as she looked out from her new vantage point. “You can see forever from here!”

“Almost” I replied.

“And why did you bring me up here?” she asked, sounding more like a skeptical teenager than an adventurous five-year-old.

“I brought you up here to teach you something about God.” I began.

“God made this rock, right?” she interjected.

“Yes, He did. He made this rock a long time ago, before He made you or me. This rock was probably here before Jesus died on the cross.”

“Probably before David fought Goliath too.” She added.

For some reason, most of our theological discussions always include at least one scene from the story of David and Goliath. Such as the day I was talking to her about the resurrection of Jesus and after much silent contemplation she added, “It’s a good thing Goliath wasn’t resurrected, we’d all be in trouble.”

“I brought you up here to tell you that God answers our prayers.”

“I already know that.” She retorted.

“But I want you to know it more than you already do.” I gently persuaded. “I used to climb this rock every week with a good friend of mine and we would sit here and pray. Sometimes, when I hunted in these woods, I would come to this rock and just sit and pray.”

“What did you pray about?” She asked sincerely.

“I prayed that God would send me a daughter. I prayed this before you were born, before I ever knew that you existed. I prayed every week, sometimes every day. When I think about this rock, I think about coming to God and asking Him for something very precious.”

“And God answered your prayer!” she interjected.

“And God answered my prayer, beyond what I could have ever imagined.” I added with a smile.

We sat there on the giant cliff looking out over the farm for several minutes. It was all that I could do to keep from shouting praises out loud as I watched her and thought of those great times on this rock with my Father in prayer.

Sometimes my faith wavered and solid promises were overpowered by the human nature of doubt and cynicism, as the weeks turned into months and the months turned into years. But our God is a timeless God and His delays are always made in wisdom and love. And today, sitting beside me smelling the spring flowers she has pulled from a crevice in the the stone table top of this sacred place, is the living, breathing, rock-solid proof, that God indeed answers prayer.

18 Years of The Providence of God

2011-04-10T03:49:00.000-07:00

The providence of God is not a mountaintop where we stand and look outward at the future unfolding before us. It is a place we run to in faith and grace, only understanding its implication on our lives as we look back on our course.

Nearly eighteen years ago, my wife an I walked into the Wayne County, WV courthouse to attend one of the most important events of our lives. We sat at the end of a long wooden conference room desk holding a tiny baby. I was young at twenty-six...Kim was even younger. Our hopes were innocently naive and our plans were as big an ocean before us.

We didn’t know it at the time, but God’s plans were even bigger.

The adoption hearing was scheduled for 10am sharp. The judge sat at the opposite end of the table looking at his watch. Except for the short bouts of nervous conversation and the babbling coo of the baby, the room was silent as we waited for the case to officially begin. The judge was not looking at his watch anticipating the end of the hearing. He was watching the clock to mark an exact beginning.

It was to be strategically exact because the baby’s biological father refused to waive his parental rights. He didn’t refuse because he was an outstanding human being, a conscientious objector or a caring dad for that matter. The biological donor in question was a drug addict with an extensive criminal history, who only knew he had a son because we had to search him out to eliminate the vacant spot on the birth records where the father’s name is supposed to appear. Still, he refused to waive his parental rights stating in a nonchalant manner, “Who knows? I might want to raise me a son...someday.”

It was that “someday” that frightened us the most.

The judge gave us specific warning that if the biological father showed up to the final adoption hearing to contest, then the hearing would be cancelled and a trial would have to determine who would receive custody of the baby.

I was confident that the man would not show up. Most of my confidence came from his criminal past and habitual drug use. The rest of my confidence came from the police cruiser strategically parked at the county line a few miles from the courthouse--the line the man would have to cross in his “illegal” vehicle to get to the hearing. I was more than confident that he would not make it on time. Still the ticking of the clock grew louder and louder.

“Let the court take note that it is now 10 am and the hearing has officially proceeded.” The judge said, looking at us with a smile. “Do you promise to take good care of this child?” He said quickly getting straight to the point. It almost sounded like a portion of our marriage vow, to which I answered rather instinctively and accordingly, “I do.” Kim resounded, “We will.”

He shuffled around a stack of official papers stamping some and signing others. We placed our signature on more than a few documents and the clerk officially filed them with her stamp.

“Let the court know that this child is now legally named Jacob Gregory Lucas and is now legally placed into the custody of Gregory and Kimberly Lucas as...their...son.” The judge officially proclaimed.

“Congratulations”, he said as he stood at the head of the table and shook our hands. There were hugs and pictures and smiles and tears. It was one of the greatest times of my life.

That little baby boy turned 18 years old today.

He is still an infant in many ways. Perhaps this is one of the blessings of being Jake’s dad. He still depends on me to meet his most basic needs and to care for him like a father would care for a little baby. Yet today, as we celebrate his birthday at his new home, a full time care facility for independent living, the words of the judge cut into my heart. “Do you promise to take good care of this child?”

“I do...we will”.

Yet someone else cares for my son now--a team of professionals have replaced me and my wife. And no matter how attached they get to my son, they will always care for him more out of duty instead of deep love. The guilt we feel from this is overwhelming at times.

Even more overwhelming is the transition now at hand. Tomorrow morning at 10am we will attend yet another hearing, at the exact same courthouse where Jake’s adoption took place 18 years ago...in the exact same room. The irony is rich and the flood of emotions are overflowing their banks today. Instead of proclaiming us as parents of Jacob Gregory Lucas, this hearing will place us as his “legal guardians”.

I cannot describe the heartbreak that title evokes.

God is good for not showing us the ending from the beginning. We would be paralyzed by fear and crippled with anxiety if we knew what the earthly future had in store for each of us. Instead he reveals the ending through our sanctified lives, little by little, step by step. Still He gives us grace-filled, backward glances of insight and understanding as we run the race forwards, leaning towards the finish line, grasping at faith to take us around the next blind curve and over the next steep hill.

Standing in that courtroom 18 years ago I would have been absolutely overwhelmed seeing my life as it is today. The failures would be too devastating; the burdens would be too great. But when I stand there tomorrow, looking back over the past 18 years of triumph and tears, I will see God’s hand of providence in my life. I will recognize His perfect plan of love, grace, adoption, rescue and redemption--both mine and my son’s.

If I had a hundred lives to live, I would live every one of them as Jake’s dad, and I would choose to stand in no other place...rather, I would choose to run in no other race, than the perfect providence of God’s great grace.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAKE!

"Many Roads"

Andrew Peterson

Jake! from greg lucas on Vimeo.

The God of Hope and A Dog Named Life

2011-02-10T09:35:00.000-08:00

She was eleven years old, going on twelve. That’s nearly eighty in dog years. I remember the day we got her. Jake and Noah were just starting kindergarten, Aaron was in preschool and Hope was a distant dream on the horizon of our midlife. It was a gray day in late January just after Christmas break. We piled into the minivan with three excited little boys and a newspaper classified add with “Jack Russell Terrier” circled in red ink.

Kim says she’ll never forget that drive, so far into the back woods of Kentucky that we thought we would never make it out alive. The guy on the other end of the phone line said it would be easier to meet him someplace and follow him in, rather than trying to find the farm on our own. So we met him on an old grocery store parking lot and followed him to the address listed in the ad.

I’d heard the term “puppy mill” before, but a mental image had never been formed in my head to match that descriptive phrase…until now. The entire farm was a seemingly endless sea of caged kennels all full of Jack Russell Terriers in different developmental stages, from new born puppies all the way to aged adult dogs. The boys were thrilled to see this barking field of dreams. I, on the other hand, was extremely disappointed.

“This doesn’t look good.” I said softly to my wife.

We parked the van and got the boys out to see the field of dogs. The dog hoarder who guided us in from the grocery store led us over to a small kennel cage in the front. “You can pick any one of these here.” He said, as if he really didn’t care if we picked any at all.

I walked up to the kennel and examined the motley crew of canines. They we bouncing and jumping and barking like little children at an orphanage as if to say, “Pick me! Pick me!” I kept my eye out for the leader of the bunch. I had already given the guidelines to the family. “We want a strong, vibrant, well tempered male dog.”

My wife had a different eye.

I call this the Esau principle. If I were God, I would have picked Esau to father my nation. And my wife would pick Jacob, every time. This would truly be an Esau moment, as much as can be illustrated with caged dogs. My wife walked to the very back of the kennel and pointed to the smallest dog of the bunch. The pitiful creature was curled up and quivering in the corner of the cage, not even aware of our presence, oblivious to the pouncing and barking of the strong and healthy alpha males.

“What about this one?” My wife asked the dog farmer.

“She’s the runt.” the man of many words expounded, telling me two things that I wasn’t at all interested in. “We want a strong, vibrant, well tempered male.” I replied in a scripted tone. “Well, then you don’t want this one.” He said, as tobacco spit streamed from his mouth to the ground at the foot of the cage.

“I’m not sure I want any of them.” I thought silently to myself.

Then my wife gave me that look. Most men know what I’m talking about. It’s a wide eyed look with a sweet smile that silently says, “This is what I really want. I won’t badger you about it, but if you really know my heart you will do this for me, and it will speak volumes of love.”

“How much for that one?” I asked the puppy man in a firm, yet compromising voice—pointing to the shivering runt in the corner of the cage. “The males are $250.00, you can have her for $175.00.” finalizing his offer with a fresh puddle of tobacco spatter on the ground—a sort of back woods pledge, I suppose. I passed one more glance over the strong, vibrant male “Esau” dogs and reluctantly gazed upon the “Jacob” dog in the corner.

So we left the puppy mill farm with the exact opposite of what I came for. And we named her Zoe—the Greek word for “life” which was the exact opposite of her demeanor.

But she was a good dog and she grew up with my boys following them wherever they went, leading every adventure and bringing them safely home. She was patient with my disabled son, Jake, who would often pet her too hard and squeeze her too tightly. She was a companion to my weary wife and made her smile with a content happiness that I loved to see. When we brought Hope home from China, Zoe became very protective, sleeping at the foot of her bed to chase away all the things that little girls are afraid of when darkness comes--a service she also provided for Jake through all his disabilities. She seemed to have an instictive perception for the weak and the small.

And for these things I accepted the runt of the litter into our home, finding in retrospect that in her smallness and weakness, she fit our family dynamic perfectly.

It is difficult for me to confess, especially now—that even though I accepted her, I never really liked her. I didn’t like the messes she made or the food she stole. I wasn’t too fond of her willful disobedience or her skittish behavior that caused her to urinate every time I walked in the door. We had sort of a silent agreement: I gave her food and shelter and she was a companion to my wife and kids staying out of my way. But even though I really didn’t like her, I loved my family, and she live under the grace of that love.

Today, as I drove her to the vet's office, my mind went back to that one summer, nearly eight years ago, when that grace was put to the test. Our boys were playing in the back yard practicing their golf skills, driving old golf balls into the woods behind our house. One thing Zoe was good at--fetching balls. You couldn’t throw a ball fast enough or far enough that she couldn’t fetch it and bring it back to you. So the boys were having a good time teeing up the golf balls and driving them far into the woods, putting her skills to the ultimate test.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but Zoe was at the starting line ready to sprint into the woods and Noah was behind the club bearing down on the teed up ball. Zoe went for the golf ball on the tee at the same time Noah swung the club and instead of making contact with the ball, he smashed the club into her skull, driving the life from her body.

Kim and I were in the kitchen when Noah carried the lifeless dog into the house with a stark look of panic on his face. “I think something’s wrong with Zoe.”

Indeed something was wrong. Her body was stiff and her tongue was hanging from her mouth, purple in color from lack of breathing. Her eyes were fixed and I could find no life in the dog named Zoe.

I have to admit, I immediately began to look for a garbage bag to place her in for quick disposal, when my sweet wife took the dog in her arms and began sobbing uncontrollably. She took Zoe over to a living room chair and sat down, rocking the lifeless canine body and bathing her in tears. And then it happened—Kim looked up at me with those eyes and said, “Do something!”

With no less urgency than a paramedic at a trauma scene, I got down on my knees, physically opened Zoe’s mouth, placed my mouth on hers and began CPR. (Yes, I gave CPR to a dog.) I continued the resuscitation for several minutes, not with the expectation that she would live, but with the hope that my wife and kids would know that I loved them.

Much to my surprise I not only received their admiration, I received the dog back from the dead. She walked a little crooked for a few days and seemed a little confused, but for the most part she lived up to her name. Needless to say, Zoe and I walked a little closer from that day on. There was a sort of unspoken bond that was formed on that day.

These are the memories that filled my mind as she took her last breath today, in the vets office, at the ripe old age of 80 (in dog years). She was a good dog.

I wrapped her body in the blanket she used to sleep on, placing her in the front seat of my pick up truck and drove to a friend’s farm near our home. I buried her under a beech tree by the stream, near a small water fall, covering her grave with creek stone and a large wooded cross made from a fallen tree branch. I laid her pink dog collar on top of the crossed branches that marked the grave.

Kim already knew what had happened, the boys are now stoic teenagers who don’t show many emotions, but breaking the news to five year old Hope was especially difficult. Zoe was the only pet she ever had, the only dog she had ever known—and now the first and only occurrence with the finality of death that she had ever experienced.

I held her tightly as she sat on my lap crying hard and long, through tear fill eyes saying over and over again, “Oh, daddy I will miss her so much.” I rocked her in my office chair stroking her hair and absorbing her tears, anticipating the questions that might come from a five year old about death and dying.

After what seemed like hours of mourning, she looked up at me with a glimmer of hope-filled concern, “Daddy?” she sobbed. “Yes sweetheart?” I replied, ready for the onslaught of questions about doggie heaven and the souls of animals. I was stunned by what came next.

“Daddy, do you think that Zoe believed in Jesus?”

A smile came to my face as I wiped the tears off her cheeks, realizing that my young daughter, during one of the saddest moments of her five year old life, was placing her trust in the only person that could comfort her in her greatest sorrow. She saw Jesus as the Savior--the only hope in the dark mystery of death. I didn’t want to crush that hope, but I did want to use it for a platform of grace.

“Zoe didn’t have to believe in Jesus.” I said. “Jesus was her creator, not her Savior.”

“What does that mean daddy? Is Zoe-Zoe in heaven?” She innocently replied.

“I don’t know, the bible doesn’t tell us anything about dogs being in heaven. But do you know what the bible does say?” I said encouragingly, “The bible says that God is a good God and He loves us very much. He loved us so much that he sent His only Son Jesus to die for our sins so that we can be with Him forever.”

“I want Zoe-Zoe to be with Jesus forever.” Hope sobbed.

I held her for a while longer and then replied, “Don’t you think that a God who would love you enough to give his own Son, will love you enough to take care of your dog?”

We talked about the sparrows and the lilies and God’s love for His creation. I told her of a new heaven and a new earth that we would someday walk in. “It will be more beautiful than you could ever imagine. And Jesus will be there.” I comforted her.

“Will Zoe-Zoe be there?” She insistently asked.

“I think that animals will fill the new earth; that is part of God plan we call redemption.” I replied, hoping I was getting through—hoping even more that I was getting it right.

“And who knows, perhaps the same God who loves you and created Zoe, will create her again--or a dog just like her on the new earth—just to make you smile” And with that, she did.

I thought about how death destroys our innocence and opens our eyes to the cost of sin. I wondered how much of this she understood. I wondered how much I understood.

We rocked a bit longer and the crying subsided. “I will miss her.” Hope resigned.

“Yes, I will miss her too. She was a good dog."

Four Women I Would Like to Thank on the 38th Anniversary of Roe vs Wade

2011-01-21T15:35:00.000-08:00

To the young woman who abandoned her baby boy to social services in the NICU where my wife works. You probably never knew that he grew up to be mentally and physically disabled, possibly somewhat due to your drug abuse and lack of prenatal care. A child should never have to deal with the suffering that this boy has dealt with. Thank you for giving him life in the midst of your uncertainties. He became my son and changed my life. He is still changing the lives of countless others who are discovering grace and hope in his amazing story.

To the woman who had two difficult pregnancies by two different men and watched as one of those men violently abused the children almost to the point of death. “It was the worst case of child abuse I have ever seen,” wrote the state prosecutor. A child should never be born into that kind of environment. Thank you for giving them life anyway. Those two backward and broken little boys became my sons and grew to be fine, strong, compassionate young men.

To the young woman on the other side of the planet in Guangxi, China who wrapped her newborn baby in a blanket and laid her on the busy street corner near the technical school in Beihai. I have often wondered what that moment was like for you. I know your choices were excruciating. Even the government was against this child being born to you. Thank you for choosing to let her live against all the odds you faced. She became my daughter. She is beautiful inside and out—probably much like you. We named her Hope because that is her destiny. Time will tell of that destiny being fulfilled. Perhaps you will see her again someday on the streets of China and maybe she will share that hope with you.

To the woman from St. Louis, Missouri, who abandoned her six month old son and his two older sisters, leaving them in the care of their paternal grandparents. I have often tried to understand your motives. I know your life was hard and you had little money and almost no support from the father of these children. I know you struggled with the decision to give birth to this last child because the days were so difficult. And even though I still cannot comprehend how a mother could abandon her babies, I know deep inside that you did the right thing. Thank you for giving me life, and thank you for giving that life to the care of my grandparents. They raised me in a household of faith. It was under their care that I discovered the Defender of orphans, the Father to the fatherless, and the God who places the lonely in families.

To these four women who, through the most difficult of circumstances and the most horrific conditions, made the most unpopular decision to give life when abortion would have been easier—

Thank you.

Your legacy lives on.

Home For Christmas

2010-12-14T18:56:00.000-08:00

I had just finished handing my son, Noah, the last of the Christmas decorations through the crawl space in the attic above our garage when I spotted the medium sized, dust covered box sitting alone on the plywood floor. It was held together with ancient duct tape that was curled and brittle from the extreme, fluctuating temperatures of many seasons in the upper atmosphere of our house.

Thinking it was yet another recycled container of ornamental Christmas bliss; I wiped off the attic dust and broke open the disintegrating duck tape seal. I wasn’t prepared for what was inside, but it made me smile.

“Is that everything?” Noah yelled from down the hatch, a floor below.

“One more,” I replied, as I bent over the attic door and handed down the dusty box.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a Christmas present, from the Lord.” I half-joked, with a serious heart.

I took the box into the house and sat down next to Kim on the couch. She was folding laundry in front of the Christmas tree. Laying the box on the coffee table in front of us I beamed, “Look what I found!”

“Whaaaat is it?” she slowly asked, a bit cautious of my typical canine-like antics of digging up stuff and bringing it to her for approval.

I reached into the box and took out the very fist item on top: a picture of our three boys sitting on a fireplace mantle from ten Christmases ago. Jake and Noah were seven years old, and Aaron was five. Their smiling faces were framed with contentment as their eyes told the story of certain Christmas anticipation and excitement. It’s the story that only small children can tell.

Under that perfect picture lay a few hundred more animated portraits of our colorful tribe, carefully bunched together like a bouquet of grace. Kim and I both shook our heads and smiled as we simultaneously realized that these memories came from a time in our history when we were hoping for better times, not realizing that these were the best of times.

But what caught us both off guard were the pictures of Jake. The past four or five years of complete struggle and frustration had almost erased our memories of the happy, satisfied, charismatic child with the contagious smile that could make a lighted Christmas tree look dull.

As we scanned the photographs we had to look hard to see his disabilities. “That’s Jake!” I said, noting the accurate personality captured on film.

Kim held one of the pictures closely and we both sat there in silence lost in the joy and sadness of all those years that seemed to be so difficult back then. But we couldn’t see the difficulties in the old box of pictures—only happiness, contentment and grace.

As we shuffled through the treasure chest of reminiscences, our five year old daughter came into the room and stood by the old dusty box with a half-eaten candy cane in her hand.

“What’s that?” she asked.

I put down the stack of pictures I was clinging to, picked her up and sat her on my lap.

“Good times.” I replied

“What kind of good times” She asked.

Squeezing her tightly, I created a giggle by placing my nose on her neck. She smelled like peppermint and clean pajamas as she laughed and squirmed in my arms.

“Good times—just like this.”

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

From The Lucas Tribe

Visiting Jake

2010-11-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

It’s a solid six hour drive from our house in Huntington, WV to The Potomac Center in Romney. Mapquest claims it is only a five hour jaunt, but the computer estimation doesn’t take into account that the mountainous, snake-like roadway of Route 50 can only be traveled at thirty-five miles an hour tops, instead of the posted fifty-five.

I’ve tried to make it in five hours, but only at the expense of premature balding tires, a white knuckled wife and a back seat full of regurgitated breakfast cereal.

Still, we make the best of it for the entire family, turning the long and sometimes arduous trip into a regularly scheduled expedition. It is a journey that we have grown accustomed to.

We generally leave home early in the morning and arrive at Romney in the late afternoon. I have discovered over the past year that the more precise the schedule of events, the more stable Jake’s personality remains. Routine is his most effective medication. Perhaps this is what has made the Potomac Center so successful for my son.

His day begins at the same time each morning. A strict program is followed from breakfast to bedtime including specific occasions for hygiene, going to the bathroom, school studies, quiet time and snack time. Since he always knows what is next, he is seldom stricken by the anxiety of unfamiliar transition.

Jake’s therapeutic reaction to this controlled atmosphere is the main reason we are willing to allow him to reside six hours away from our home. For the first time in a long time he is at peace. He is happy. He is progressing instead of regressing. He is accomplishing things at The Potomac Center that we never thought he would be able to accomplish. To remove him from this structured environment would mean starting all over again with potentially devastating consequences to his way of life.

Still we know the day will come when he must move. The Potomac Center is an adolescent facility. When Jake turns 18, they will begin the process of transitioning him into an adult facility (hopefully closer to our home). In the meantime, we make the trip to Romney as often as we can.

Arriving at our destination, we park in the parking lot and do the 7th inning stretch before following the sidewalk that leads to the “A-house” residence where Jake lives. We can always see him waiting for us in the large picture window of the commons room—his face pressed up against the glass, creating a small patch of fog on the cold pane—waiting and watching for us to appear.

As we approach the building, Jake spots us on the sidewalk and begins his dance of celebration—jumping up and down while vocalizing a long, loud and monotone victorious screech. We recognize this sound as the sound of Jake’s happiness—it is inviting and invigorating, and it always makes us smile.

The entrance to the residence swings open and his charismatic presence fills the doorway. As he runs to greet us, his crooked legs swing underneath his body like two drunken men competing in a three-legged race. I am always amazed at how well and how fast they carry him, even as each step appears to be his last.

I step out in front of Kim and the other kids to absorb the initial impact of his onslaught of joy. It is a great duty and delight to both protect my family from the oncoming charge while receiving for myself the full brunt of Jake’s love and excitement. He runs into my arms and I lift him off of the ground, spinning him around while squeezing him tightly to my chest. He smells clean and familiar.

We exchange a flurry of kisses and I set him back on the ground easing him into the continuing blissful reunion with the rest of his family. The first few minute of our visit always remind me of the climax to Jesus’ story of the prodigal son, and the anticipation of heaven becomes a little sweeter with each and every trip to Romney.

The visit itself is always true to the same schedule. We pack the entire family into the Suburban and make the thirty minute drive from the Potomac Center to Moorefield, the nearest town with a McDonalds, movie theater and a Walmart—three essentials for life with Jake.

Once in Moorefield we invade the local McDonalds for Jake’s favorite 10-piece chicken nuggets and fries. It’s here where we really get to sit down with our son and spend time inspecting, examining and observing all the changes he has undergone since our last visit.

His copper colored hair is thick and one of the counselors at the Center has trimmed his long sideburns into “chops”. I run may hand over his face and feel the stubble from his spotty beard.

“You shaving now boy?” I gently tease him.

He laughs and nods his head as he contently stuffs french fries into his mouth. The strict diet at the Potomac Center has Jake lean, muscular and famished. He takes delightful advantage of the junk food opportunity before him.

After lunch, we generally head to the movie theater to catch the latest kid-flick. Movies have always been a soothing mechanism for Jake. The movie for today is “Nanny McFee Returns”. It is an entertaining story for the kids, but Kim and I both became sensitive to how Jake was processing the overall theme of the drama, specifically the ending.

In the final scene of the movie, the long lost father—missing in action from war and falsely reported as killed—returns home to the joyful surprise of his wife and children. It was a wonderful reunion and a very moving portrait with a heavenly paralell. As the credits rolled Jake began to applaud, but he cried as we left the movie theater. I often wonder what scenes are being played out in his mysterious, silent mind.

After the movie we always head to Walmart and let Jake do some shopping for some new DVD videos and Jelly Belly jelly beans. He proudly and recklessly pushes the shopping cart through the store vocalizing loud excitement as he rolls. People stop, stare and get out of his way. Jake doesn’t care; he’s on a mission and he knows exactly where to go. We all laugh with a hint of jealousy at his bold, irresponsible freedom to be content with himself.

This is Jake’s time and my other children, even my five-year-old daughter, is ever so gracious to make sure he is lavished with love, affection and attention. I’m not sure if the saying is accurate that “absence make the heart grow fonder” but I do know that absence makes the heart more sensitive to the brevity of life and the importance of time together—times like these.

After a few hours in the bliss of a completed and reunited family, we head back to the Potomac Center—back to Jake’s security and the schedule that he has grown so accustomed to. Already he is feeling the creeping distress of being out of sync as it approaches dinner time and his evening routine.

The trip back to the Center is usually very quiet as Kim is contemplating the approaching dread of leaving her son once again and I am focused on the impending comfort of my soon-to-be heartbroken wife. This is the part of Jake’s visit that reaches into our soul and wrings out the rationale that tells us we are doing the right things for the right reasons. It often feels like a hard punch to the chest.

We exit the Suburban and walk quietly as a family back down the sidewalk that leads to Jake’s dorm. The other kids make trivial, nervous conversation in an attempt to divert the impending emotions of their despondent parents. After walking into the commons area of the building we exchange hugs and kisses doing our best to hold back the contagious emotion of the moment. Then Jake points to the door and signs, “It’s time for you to go.”

This one adamant phrase from his non-verbal vocabulary lets us know that this is his place, and as much as he loves us and wants to be with us, he has a routine to get back into—a routine that makes him feel safe and normal.

We are somewhat comforted by Jakes display of independence. It helps us to believe that we have done the right thing—the best thing—for our son.

As we exit the building and walk back down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, just out of sight of the big picture window, Kim falls into my arms and weeps openly. I silently motion for the kids to continue walking and I pull her close.

My reassurance always follows the same script, “He is happy. He’s doing so well! He needs us to leave him here. The Lord will take care of him. It’s going to be alright.” But my attempts of comfort are no match for the empty arms of a grieving mother. And so I hold her, as she cries.

I suppose it could be argued (and I have been guilty myself of this thought) that a 12 hour round trip drive through winding mountain roads, followed by an additional 60 minute round trip to the nearest town just to eat chicken nuggets, watch a movie and shop for jelly beans, is hardly worth the effort of spending three hours with someone you can’t even have a conversation with and then leaving with a broken heart.

But Jake would probably disagree.

On the long drive home the daylight fades to dusk and the resilience of youth surrenders its strength as the kids fall asleep in the back seat. I take Kim’s hand and squeeze it tightly in a declaration of assurance and protection. We drive west as the sun sets in a pink sky, highlighting the painted leaves of the Appalachian canvas—a reassuring “Amen” to all our silent prayers.

Lessons of Grace--An interview with Tim Challies and David Murray

2010-10-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

Here's the link to an interview I did with Tim Challies and David Murray on their Connected Kingdom podcast. Tim and David asked some great questions as they ministered to me with their kindness and encouragement. Both of these men have done much to spread the grace of Jake's story, which is the grace of God's story, throughout the bogosphere.

If you have about 17 extra minutes, give it a listen.

I pray that you find hope and grace in the gospel, for whatever circumstances life has brought your way. And remember, your circumstances do not determine God's love for you--the cross has already determined God's love for you.

Your circumstances are there to point you towards the hope of God in the gospel of His Son--to show you your weakness so that you may fall on His strength. So step back from whatever difficult situation you are in and look at the big picture of what God is doing in your life. When you do, you will see nothing but grace. And perhaps in that picture of grace you too have a story to tell to the world.

A Few Words About Adoption: My Interview with S.D. Smith

2010-10-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I had the opportunity to answer some great questions from Sam Smith about adoption, the gospel, and the message of my book "Wrestling with an Angel". I hope you'll link on over to Sam's blog and read through the 2-part interview. My greater hope is that you will ask the Lord what your part will be in the lives of over 100,000,000 orphans worldwide. Don't ask Him whether you should get involved--He's already answered that question (Psalm 82:3-4). Ask Him how you should begin to make room in your life for the care of an orphan, either through the adoption process itself, or the by supporting others willing to open their homes to these forgotten children.

“The Secret Thing of God in the Shadows of Disability”

2010-10-10T19:26:00.000-07:00

Locked away in the mystified mind of my mentally disabled son is a deep thinking joy that can only be explained as “the secret things of God”.

While much of Jake’s non-verbal life is spent battling the anxiety of the unknown within the unsolved puzzle of his silent world, there is also a contemplative side to his musings. There are times when impulsive laughter fills the room and there are moments when deep stares pierce through the emptiness like a listening friend or a pondering poet.

I have spoken to other fathers, and other parents, about this strange and glorious presence that seems to permeate the hidden minds of our exceptional children. Most will agree that there is something divine going on in the invisible realm that cannot be seen with our underprivileged eyes, or translated through our able bodied vocabulary.

It might also be noted that these are not parents who are whimsical in their theology or capricious in their view of God. Neither would I conclude that these fathers and mothers are emotionally caught up in the over spiritualization of their children’s disability. Instead I would say that these parents have developed a close bond with their children through an even closer bond with God and therefore have become extremely sensitive to the spiritual realm, seeing things (that most take for granted) through the lens of the miraculous each and every day.

One father that I spoke to recently described his disabled son’s moments of spontaneous laughter and unbridled joy as “Playtime with Jesus”. He explained to me that his son, blind from birth, seems to see things that we cannot see and seems to have a relationship with God that magnifies the very real presence of Jesus.

My son also gives the impression that he too shares a divine bond with his heavenly Father. One of the first words in sign language Jake learned as a young child was the sign for “Jesus” which is displayed by pointing to the center of each hand (where the nail prints will be found). Ask him where Jesus lives and Jake will point upward. Ask him where else Jesus lives and Jake will point to his heart. I don’t remember ever teaching my son these things. Could it be that for many years he has known of the One who sits at the Father’s right hand, and inhabits the hearts of men?

I have watched Jake sit through entire sermons and nod his head appropriately. I have watched him give emotional standing ovations at the end of a well preached message (even when he is the only one clapping in a room of 300 people). He also claps at the end of each prayer—it is a hearty, resounding AMEN!

There have been times after a sermon or moving hymn when Jake is in tears. I do not know what is going on in his mind during these times. I only know that there is so much more happening than the doctors and specialists have ever dreamed possible in the silent, diminished world of his “disabled mind”.

I admit that I constantly seek out the display of God’s glory in my son’s life, maybe to a supernatural fault. I look for things that most people don’t look for, and I hope for things that many parents don’t consider in the lives of their able bodied children.

Perhaps this intense observation projects a blinding bias that shades my reality with the hope for the miraculous. But this is not a bad place to be. I am not hoping for the things of God, or the gifts of God, or even the healing of God—I am hoping for the presence of God. And oftentimes His presence is most tangible and observable in the struggling life of my disabled son.

Is it possible that my son’s inability to see things as a “normal” person sees, or his incapability to understand what “ordinary” people understand, is actually an exceptional ability rather than a disability?

Or could it be that I am the disabled one here? That through my own personal pride and the superficial cares of this world I am calloused to the deeper things of God, deaf to His audible voice, and blind to His very real presence in my life.

I will only discover the answers to these questions in eternity when Jake receives his glorified body, complete with a communicating mind and an articulating tongue. Maybe then we will all discover that disability was actually an exceptional ability to see, taste and understand the secret things of God.

"Wrestling with an Angel" Cruciformpress.com

2010-09-30T07:33:00.000-07:00

This has been a whirlwind of a week anticipating the release of the book and getting ready to travel to Minneapolis to the Desiring God National Conference. I originally thought that the book would be released on Oct 1, but found out just a couple days ago that the release date had been pushed back to Nov 1 to accommodate the release of the first book by Cruciform Press, "Sexual Detox" by Tim Challies. I was a little disappointed at first, until I realized that God's schedule is absolutely perfect and it is an honor to take a back seat to a man like Challies.

Then, I woke up this morning to a tweet from Justin Taylor from The Gospel Coalition http://thegospelcoalition.org/blogs/justintaylor/ informing me that "Wrestling with an Angel" is now available. And if you want a discounted price and an ebook (audiobook coming soon), check out the publisher's new website at Cruciformpress.com http://bit.ly/dwsrl4

So, if you have been blessed in any way from this blog through the life of my son Jake, please consider checking out the first chapter of the book and possibly ordering a copy. Also, the book is saturated with grace and soaked with the gospel, so consider getting a copy for a struggling friend who may be in need of seeing their darkest moments through the lens of God's amazing grace.

Thank you all for making this book possible.

Greg and Jake

"Wrestling with an Angel" The Book

2010-09-14T09:39:00.000-07:00

As you may remember from an older post, Tim Challies contacted me a few months back and suggested that I compile most of my blog entries along with a few of my journal entries into a short book. Challies put me in contact with Kevin Meath at Cruciform Press and after several months of writing, editing, rewriting and counseling with Kevin and Tim, a short book was put together.

Here is a link to the sneak peek and endorsements. http://tinyurl.com/2caf88n It's a Facebook page so you probably wont be able to view it unless you are actually signed in to Facebook. The book is scheduled to be available October 1st through Cruciform Press. I will post more ordering information when it become available.

Thank you all for following my blog. Your prayers and comments served as great encouragement to complete this writing.

From Scoundrel to Saint, The Gospel of Grace for those Disgraced

2010-09-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

I am a scoundrel by nature--unworthy of life.

Like Adam my father—I was a sinner by choice.

Like Cain my brother—I was a sinner by birth.

Like Rahab the Harlot—I was a whore.

Like David the King—I was an adulterer and a murderer.

Like Jonah the prophet—I was a runner and a rebel.

Like Peter the rock—I have denied my Lord.

Like Paul the Apostle—I am still the worst sinner I know.

Dead in the guilt of my sin…

Bound in the shroud of my disgrace…

Buried in the grave of my choices...

Sealed in the coffin of my hopelessness…

Forgotten in the despair of my helplessness…

I was dead in my sin—unable to respond.

But God, through the deep love and mercy of His compassion, for His own glory, granted repentance and faith in the gospel of Christ. And by the payment provided by His own Son, to satisfy the wrath of God deserved for me, through the sacrificial exchange of the Savior on the cross…

I have been ransomed from my condemnation, and raised from the dead!

And Like Jesus—I am righteous!

In Him I am transformed—from scoundrel to saint, from prostitute to bride, from adultery to faithfulness, from murderer to rescuer, from running to standing firm, from rebel to obedient follower, from rejecting Christ to heralding the gospel, from worst of sinner to best of example…undeserving of it all.

This is grace!

Disability and Tranquility: Striving for a Guiltless and Godly Vacation

2010-08-20T07:48:00.000-07:00

“You realize we haven’t done this since we were kids.” My wife said in a relaxed tone as we lay on the beach in our lawn chairs like two honeymooners on an island resort. “Do what?” I asked, thinking she was probably talking about the reckless fun we had experienced since we had been on vacation. We were on the verge of being irresponsible and both of us had played so hard with our kids that our bodies were sore.

“We’ve haven’t been able to come out on the beach together and just sit, relax and stare out at the ocean…not since we were first married.” She softly replied while taking my hand.

This spot on the beach is very special to us. We’ve been coming here since we were in high school; Kim has been coming since she was a little girl. But for the past 16 years our vacations have always been somewhat exhausting and mostly segregated.

The routine was usually followed without much thought. I would come out on the beach in the early morning to be by myself and Kim would spend the morning in the condo with Jake. Around 10 AM I would relieve her and she would come out to the beach with the other children, or by herself, while I would spend the afternoon with Jake. In the evening when the sun wasn’t so hot, we would all go out to the beach and Kim and I would rotate the one-on-one care with Jake.

Children always change the dynamics of a marriage, and time usually spent lavishing attention on a spouse can be divided for the attention of the children. That is mostly normal and not always a bad thing. But when you have a disabled child, sometimes the time divided can lead to neglect. In my 17 years of parenthood, I have been guilty of this sin many times.

I do not mean that Jake has been a burden. It has been an honor to care for him so deeply for all these years. I mean that when Jake was out of his environment—out of his element and off his schedule, he was mostly miserable and even harder to deal with than usual. Add to that the sensory integration of bright sun, hot humidity and his fear of water and his misery often became contagious.

And so this year on vacation when we weren’t running, jumping, swimming or playing, we sat on the beach and watched our 4 year old daughter dig holes and build castles as our other two teenage sons cruised the sand in the self-perceived coolness of their fledgling masculinity attempting to impress the fickle cliques of teenage girls.

It was a wonderful, relaxing, God glorifying time.

But like sand that blows in your eyes from someone shaking off a beach towel, sprinkled throughout our vacation were the moments of sadness and feelings of guilt. Jake was not with us and we were having the time of our lives in his absence. This thought brought our adventure and our peace to a screeching halt more than once during our great vacation.

Then I came home and read a post from John Knight’s blog talking about this very thing—the guilt that sometimes invades his peacefulness during their one week family vacation, taken without their disabled son, Paul.

Although necessary for the refreshment of the family and good for their disabled son at the same time (he gets to spend the week on his grandmother’s farm), the ebb and flow of guilt and shame often weighs heavy on the parents heart.

I was glad to hear John communicate this.

Being the stubborn, prideful man that I was (am?), I always included Jake in everything we did as a family. I thought this was a good thing, definitely a responsible thing, possibly an honorable thing, and maybe even a godly thing. After all, we were a family and families do everything together. So even if Jake was going to be in an environment where he would be miserable, or even if he made the entire week miserable for the other kids, we were still going to be together, and make the best of it.

Last year we took our first vacation without Jake in 16years. We went all out. I took three weeks off work and we drove a total of nearly 4,000 miles as we roamed adventurously all up and down the east coast. We stayed in campgrounds and cooked our food over open campfires. We slept out under the stars and spent more than one night huddled together in a leaky tent braving a bad storm till early morning. It was a wonderful, dangerous, glorious, risky, fabulous time.

My other children still talk about that vacation like it was a trip to the moon.

Truth is—life is difficult, and quality time with family is needed to strengthen the important relationships that this complexity often weakens. For families gifted with a disabled child, these difficulties can be even more magnified, warranting an even greater need for this quality time.

So as I took my wife’s hand there on the beach, with the surrounding peace and senseless fun of this year, the grand memories of last year, and the lessons learned from all the years past—I resolved to plan vacations well. I will fight the guilt and depressed feelings of blame by seeking out the best adventure for my family based on their abilities and disabilities.

And as the tribe-leader of this annual journey, I will balance safe, serene, solitude with risky, dangerous, exciting adventure—for the good of our family and the glory of our God.

Father's Day: God's Great Grace in Being Called "Dad"

2010-06-20T03:30:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago I was plundering through an old wooden chest in our house that was packed full of family memories from the past 22 years. Among the many relics of time that took me back into the past were three pieces of colored construction paper, centered with a tiny individual hand print—one for each of my sons.

Above each hand print were the words, “To my Dad: Happy Father’s Day!”

I am guessing by the size of the hand prints and the disheveled, shaky lines of writing, that this fine artwork was copyrighted sometime in the late 90’s when the boys were in preschool or just starting grade school.

Today these brothers are young men. Jacob is 17, Noah is 16, Aaron is 15 and our family is now complete with a daughter (and little sister) appropriately named Hope, who is 4.

These crumpled Father’s Day cards from yester-year would be treasures enough in and of themselves. But for this father, every Father’s Day card is a reminder of God’s amazing grace and perfect providence.

When I was younger I imagined how great it would be to become a dad. I dreamt of how I would lead my kids into great adventures and pass on lessons of life that would develop into traditions for my children and their children’s children. For me, fatherhood has always been one of the most honorable callings—one that I have always aspired to.

After Kim and I were married we discovered that God had a different plan in store for our family. We would never be able to have biological children. There would be no passing of genetic traits or physical imprints duplicated from us to our baby, born naturally to our family. We would not have a boy with my eyes, or a little girl with my wife’s hair and smile.

But sometimes, instead of blessing us with children that have our own physical traits, God chooses to create for us a family that illustrates the characteristics of His very own grace.

Not too far down in the old trunk from the three pieces of hand-printed Father’s Day cards, is an old newspaper article from 1995. It tells of a two-year-old boy that was maliciously assaulted and nearly beaten to death by his stepfather. The child’s skull was fractured and his back was broken. He had two black eyes and a broken arm. The attending physician also noted several other past broken bones and scars that had healed without medical attention.

“It was the worst case of child abuse I have ever seen.” The state prosecutor was quoted in the article.

The violently abusive stepfather also had a biological son who showed signs of severe physical abuse and trauma as well. These two half-brothers were taken from their biological family and placed into the Social Welfare system of our state.

Back inside the wooden chest, next to the old newspaper clipping was a tiny plastic hospital bracelet that reads, “Baby-boy Harr”. It was taken from the wrist of a premature baby—a patient in the hospital N.I.C.U. where my wife worked, and still works today.

Born to a young mother with a criminal history and a drug addicted father, this tiny boy was small and frail—fair and beautiful. A note was placed on his crib that he was being “abandoned” by his birth mother to Social Services. No one knew anything about this child’s medical history, and no one had a dream of what his future would hold.

Later, on the other side of the world, there would be a baby girl left wrapped in a blanket on a desolate street corner, crying for no one to hear. She would be forsaken for the simple reason that she was a girl and not a boy. This helpless and hopeless baby would spend the next year in an orphanage and the foster care system of her communist nation.

Four lives touched by extreme tragedy, abandonment and abuse by biological blood—left hopeless and alone.

But God writes our story, from the beginning to the end…and He is always the hero.

He is a mighty defender of orphans—giving hope to the hopeless and strength to the downtrodden. He places the lonely into families. He is more concerned with the life giving blood of His Son than the biological blood of men. And what some may intend for evil, God purposely and powerfully turns to His glory and our greatest good.

And with this intentional tenacity, the sovereign Lord picked up the pieces of these broken lives and formed a family—we call it the Lucas Tribe.

None of us look anything alike, but we all share the traits of our Father.

So today, by God’s incredible grace and sovereign providential plan, I celebrate Father’s Day.

Where Disability Becomes Amazing Grace-Ability

2010-06-09T17:31:00.000-07:00

“One word does well to summarize the day in and day out of families of people with special needs – RELENTLESS. Think about that word, what does it speak to?
Webster’s dictionary defines it as: showing or promising no abatement of severity, intensity, strength, or pace.

The effects of disability do not let up. They are daily, they are hourly, they are there offering challenges by the minute at times. There is no end in sight, there is no cure, there is no healing in the broader sense. But what sweet balm of ultimate healing they will meet if their eyes are turned to Christ.”

Those are the words of my good friend, Justin Reimer, Director and Chairman of The Elisha Foundation in Bend, Oregon.

As divine appointments go, I met Justin through this blog and we instantly bonded through the disability of our sons and the grace of our Father.

A few weeks ago, Justin invited my family out to Oregon to attend The Elisha Foundation Retreat, a special ministry named after his special son, for families touched by disability.

At first I extended a polite, “Thank you, but…” which was followed by a long list of obstacles, barriers and excuses that would need a certified miracle from God to make the trip possible.

However, Justin was “RELENTLESS” as he continued to chisel away at the obstacles, barriers and excuses until finally the providence of God flew us on the wings of grace from Huntington, WV to Redmond, Oregon.

From Redmond, we drove to the Deschutes National Forest outside of the small town of Sisters, to a place called Camp Sherman.

Now I’m not sure what the New Earth will look like, but after last weekend I have a lot better guess. Nestled within sight of the Cascade Mountains in the shade of a forest of 100 foot tall Ponderosa Pines, sit twenty or so cozy cabins separated by a winding, rock laden, crystal clear trout stream.

This was the setting for the “sweet balm of healing” as Justin and his army of volunteers turned our tired and hurting eyes to Christ.

Pastor Paul Martin, from Grace Fellowship Church in Toronto, Canada stood and delivered with compassion and authority every evening as he brought the gospel to this group of weary travelers.

This was no “feel good” watered down, cotton-candy preaching. It was deep and penetrating as he faithfully exposited from the book of Hebrews proclaiming and magnifying the Christ that “upholds the universe by the word of His power”.

This is the Jesus that provides healing, strength and grace for families touched by the heartbreak and fatigue of disability. This is the Jesus that puts purpose and power in the lives of the disabled. This is the Jesus that was reflected in the lives of so many families at this Christ-centered retreat.

But it wasn’t only the parents who were ministered to. Each family was represented by a child with specific disabilities. These children were embraced, cherished, loved on and protected. They were gently and intentionally pointed to the cross of Christ in word, action and example.

In return, these special children became ministers of grace to the entire camp. I watched with awe and amazement as teenage volunteers (my own sons included) lay aside their pride, egos and sense of clickish popularity for the mantle of humility and Christ-likeness.

I saw adult volunteers go above and beyond to give respite to the families and grace-ability to the disabled. I observed the strong carry the weak and the weak change the lives of the strong.
There were no tears of pity or self-centered sorrow, only weeping of joy and satisfaction in the One who will eventually wipe all our eyes with His healing garment of grace.

In great retrospect, I am glad I traveled across the country to attend this retreat. I am grateful for those who made it possible through their generosity and kindness. I am touched by the many new friends and life long relationships that were built in these few, but powerful days.

Most of all I am amazed by the God of grace who, through a blog entry much like this, knit together the hearts of two families, giving one father the “RELENTLESS” passion of ministry and another the “sweet balm of healing”—both born in the shadow of bitter-sweet disability...or better yet, amazing, grace-ability.

"Pay attention...something eternally beautiful is going on here".

2010-05-31T03:45:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I was sitting on the Mall parking lot in my police cruiser taking a lunch break and meditating on a book entitled, “Radical”, wishing someone would have warned me beforehand about the dangers of reading a work like this.

David Platt’s writing drives a stake right through the heart of the cultural Christianity that America has created to satisfy their comforts and soothe their convictions. It is a wonderfully dangerous book.

From first few pages, I bonded with the author’s passion and heartache of how we have been lulled to spiritual sleep by the “good life” of the American dream while leaving behind the mission of our Master, devaluing the cost of our salvation, and losing the wild, untamed risk of our faith.

“I could not help but think that somewhere along the way we had missed what is radical about our faith and replaced it with what is comfortable.” He writes.

Feeling a bit guilty, I stopped reading for a just a moment and glanced above my book for personal reflection, while simultaneously scanning the Mall parking lot for impending trouble like a faithful sheep dog.

About 30 yards to my right I noticed a middle-aged man exit a silver minivan and then walk to the rear and lift the trunk lid. He strained to pull out a small wheel chair, sat it on the ground and opened it for use, locking the wheels in place with the safety brakes.

He then walked around the van to the passenger side sliding door, opened it and disappeared up to his waist inside the vehicle for just a few moments. As he maneuvered his upper body back out of the doorway, attached to him was a small, frail looking boy, probably 8 or 9 years old who moved in jerky, floppy motion, like a marionette with the strings cut off.

The man, who I assumed was the boy’s father, carried the child to the rear of the van, placed him in the wheelchair and strapped him in for better control. He then wiped the sweat from his brow and unlocked the safety brakes from the chair. The child’s arms and legs began to flail wildly, either in the excitement of the moment or from the cerebral palsy he was obviously afflicted with—or maybe both.

I watched as the weary looking dad then shut the van doors and pushed the wheelchair carrying his son across the hot asphalt parking lot disappearing into the front entrance of the Mall.

For obvious reasons, I am very sensitive to scenes like this. I am also very sensitive to the possibility that God sets me in certain strategic places and then opens my eyes to observe things that most people don’t get to see.

An inaudible whisper often comes with these divine glimpses, “Pay attention…there is something eternally beautiful going on here, much more than you could imagine, and I’m inviting you to be a part of it.”

I’m not sure what David Platt’s book has to do with what I observed, perhaps nothing—or maybe everything.

Most of us feel something when we see the plights of an average family struggling with the challenges of raising a disabled child. Some of us feel pity, while others feel sympathy. Still others sense some kind of thankfulness as they place into perspective the smallness of the problems in their own lives.

I also experience those thoughts, along with the empathy that comes from the bond of being a fellow parent with a disabled child. But more than that, I feel the strong desire to act. I want to offer assistance, give advice, share some encouragement, or pray for specific needs.

Sometimes I feel the overwhelming desire to simply place a hand on a shoulder and say, “I know how tired you are, hang in there. God is faithful and there is so much more going on within your circumstances than you can see right now.”

Being in a police uniform and carrying a gun typically stops me from acting in any of those capacities unless prompted by dangerous circumstances or a divine appointment. It does happen, but usually in an obscure moment with little or no follow up.

But as I sit on the parking lot today, I find myself in a different season of life than the father I just observed. My son is now grown and gone, being cared for by others in a way that I can no longer care for him. My life, once very radical, is now very comfortable.

This is a good place to be—for a season. It is a very dangerous place to be—for a lifetime.

I have enjoyed the rest and peace and shift in priorities in my life, but I don’t want to be lulled to sleep by them. Our family has never been a “normal” family. And now we have the chance to live this American dream to the fullest and do all the things “normal” families do. It’s tempting.

At the same time, we also have an amazing opportunity to live radically once again, impacting the lives of many through the grace of God given to us in such a steady supply over these years.

Raising Jake has been an adventure. It has also been an education—a training ground for ministry. God has spent this time equipping us for something great. I will not waste it on comfort and ease while so many around me continue to struggle in desperation and despair.

I suppose this is where my blog and my life take a different turn, perhaps not so much “different” as “evolutionary” or even “revolutionary”.

I hope that you, the reader, will continue to follow this adventure. There is a book coming soon, Lord willing, that will expand on the blog stories of raising Jake and the lessons of grace gleaned from his life. I desire that it will honor the gospel, glorify God and magnify Christ.

I also pray that the book will serve to extend the message of hope and grace to the many hurting families struggling through disability, as well as those who are simply struggling with life and hopelessness. God’s grace is sufficient for all things, and in great weakness there is found great strength from a great Savior. This is the true message of the book, and this is the true hope for all our disabilities.

The blog itself will begin to take on a new role as I attempt to tell the stories of grace in the lives of so many others who wrestle with angels of their own. God’s grace is all around us, waiting to be unveiled and marveled at in the celestial circumstances of life.

At first these accounts may seem few and far in between since I have now obligated most of my free time to complete this book. But I will stay faithful to the prompting of the Lord and I will be observant to what He is doing in and through the lives around me.

I anticipate my calling as a police officer will continue to serve as a window of opportunity to both see and record these adventures of grace.

Thank you for your many comments of encouragement and hope, as well as your petitions and prayers. I don’t respond to all of them in writing, but I assure you that I respond to each of them with praise and thanksgiving to my Father. You will never know the incredible strength that is given to my family on a daily basis through these simple, yet profound words and prayers.

Now follow me as I follow Christ on this untamed, radical journey of grace. There will be many divine appointments along the way. Pay close attention to the eternal beauty of what He is doing. There is so much more going on than you could ever imagine…and He’s inviting you to be a part of it all.

The Eyes of Angels and The Face of My Father

2010-05-20T08:13:00.000-07:00

“See to it that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 18:10

The house is very quiet this evening. I can hear the stream across from our front porch flowing hard against its banks, draining the water from the surrounding hillsides saturated by the violence of yesterday’s storm. But the sky is clear tonight and the woods are alive with the sounds of late spring. There is a certain hope in the fragrance of the air.

I have time to think about all that has happened over the past few years, months and days. Since Jake was born I have not had this kind of freedom to simply sit and contemplate without agenda or interruption.

As we settle into our son’s absence, there are bitter-sweet blessings to behold. To lay in bed on a Saturday morning, to sit on the porch swing with my wife, to go fishing with my sons, have a tea party with my daughter, or go out to a restaurant with the entire family used to be a rare jewel of exceptional grace. Now it is strangely normal. I can see how the average family could eventually take these moments for granted. I hope we never do.

But the sweet blessings of peace, tranquility and quality time also have a bitter side. Our family is incomplete. Our son and brother is missing. There is an empty chair at the dinner table. The house is very quiet—and I have time to think.

Sometimes, in the stillness of it all, anxiety sneaks in and strangles my peace. "Where is my son? Who is caring for him tonight? Is he scared? Is he hungry? Does he feel abandoned or alone? Does he miss his family? Is there something he needs to tell us that only we can understand? What if someone abuses or neglects him…we would never know!"

Anxiety is almost always followed by pride, “No one can care for my son like me. No one will love him like me. When Jake was here with us, at least I knew his basic needs were being met. I do not even know the names of the people caring for him tonight.”

Pride leads to guilt; guilt leads to depression; depression leads to desperation. And desperation always finds me groping for God’s promises. It was in this desperation that I came across Matthew 18:10 and the words of Jesus tonight.

“See to it that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.”

I do not believe Jake has a guardian angel assigned to his disability to protect him from harm. I do believe, however, that he has a guardian Father who sits on His throne in heaven surrounded by an army of angels intently watching the face of their Commander and Chief.

And with one nod of the Almighty’s head, a legion of angels could be dispatched to preserve and protect my son. Night and day they wait and watch the Father’s face as His eyes watch over Jake.

Our house has always been like a fortress, locked down with alarm systems and dead bolts keeping Jake from escaping into an outside world where danger lurks and disaster waits. But locks and alarms are a false sense of security from unpredictable circumstances and sovereign providence.

When Jake was three years old he nearly drowned in a creek outside our home. The Father nodded and the angels were dispatched. My wife found him face down in the water, lips blue and skin cold. She administered CPR until he began breathing again.

When Jake was five he wandered out into traffic on a busy street. The Father nodded and the angels were dispatched. The speeding car screeched to a halt just inches from my son.

A couple years ago, when Jake escaped the house and wondered deep into our neighborhood at the vulnerability of traffic, strangers and vicious dogs—the Father nodded, the angels were dispatched and Jake was brought home.

Only days after Jake moved to the center and school, another mentally disabled resident took a pillow and put in over Jakes face as he slept. The Father nodded, the angels were dispatched, and the care worker decided to check the rooms of the sleeping residents. He walked in as the other child was trying to smother Jake to death, “because he was being too loud.” The other child was removed from the building and Jake never even knew what happened.

Will God always protect my son from danger and harm? No, because it is always dangerous to be His child. And sometimes pain, suffering and even death are ways that God is most glorified in our lives.

But God will forever be present, care for and love my Jake with a Father’s compassion that outshines my best abilities and most hopeful intentions as an earthly father—a compassion that is always diligent, always attentive and always caring for his most intimate needs.

And so as I sit and listen to the creek flowing hard against its banks tonight, I have time to think. It is a bitter-sweet time. I miss my son. But I am reminded that God is on His throne at this very moment. He has His eyes on my boy, and an army of angels have their eyes on the face of my Father.

Jake is in good hands.

Letting go is not the same as giving up

2010-05-07T06:44:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, my white t-shirt was soaked with the tears of my wife. She buried her face in my chest and opened the floodgates of her heart as I held her in our bed. Seventeen years of glorious, painful struggle had come down to this night.

“I feel like I have failed him…” she sobbed.

“We have not failed. We have always sought what is best for him. This is best for him…this is best for everyone.” I replied, trying to convince myself in a parallel attempt to comfort my wife.

A few months ago Jake was enrolled in a special school to help him transition to more independent living in a special needs community as adulthood inevitably advances on his life. Much to our amazement, he thrived in this super structured environment.

The original plan was to get him toilet trained, work on his behavior skills, and then transition him back home with respite assistance.

He came home this past weekend for a visit and the original plan fell to pieces. A case worker from the school brought him to the house so we could celebrate his 17th birthday and within minutes of walking through our door Jake had regressed back to the state his original violent, miserable condition.

The case worker stood aghast as Jake messed his pants, crawled on the floor and curled up into a fetal position in the corner of his room. It took three of us to change his clothes and get him cleaned up—two to hold him down and one to scrub and clean.

“He is completely toiled trained at the Center” the case worker defended with a thousand mile stare. “I’ve never seen him act like this before.”

“We’ve never known anything different,” my voice cracking in hope-strangled disappointment.

Most of the visit went well; as well as one can expect with Jake. But the nervous pacing, incessant whining and repetitive compulsive behavior seemed to increase with each hour. As time approached for Jake to return to the school he became peaceful and calm again.

He hugged his brothers and sister; then dad and mom. Before walking to the car he picked up his small computer talker that he wears around his neck and said, “Goodbye”. He waved like the grand marshal in a ticker tape parade and blew us volley of passionate kisses.

I buckled him into the back seat of the care worker’s car. And just like that…he was gone.

For a brief moment I felt like a normal parent watching his 17 year old son drive away to college. Then, in almost a panic, it seemed like someone had just kidnapped our baby boy. Like a good cop and faithful father, I wanted to run after the car, catch the kidnapper and rescue my son.

Then I realized—this was the rescue.

Jake was moving to the best quality of adult life that we could offer. My selfish attitude of, “No one can care for my son as good as myself” faded into the submission and surrender of his future to the care of my sovereign God.

My wife and I sat on the front porch swing most of that day--wondering…grieving…resting. It was almost like a death in the family, except no one came with food and condolences. We were all alone.

I told a friend it was like we had just completed a marathon together, but when we crossed the finish line no one was there to cheer us on. Then we realized the race had been over for quite some time. All the lights were off and the crowds had gone home. There was no celebration, just exhaustion, weariness and fatigue. We embraced each other at the finish line knowing we lost, but still grasping for the hope that at the very least, we finished the race.

I really don’t know where to go from here. Perhaps this will be the final chapter in the book I now have time to write. Maybe I’ll get a hobby, go fishing, make some new friends and do whatever good friends do.

Or better yet, I think I’ll take my wife on a date and not have to worry about getting a call from the neighbors that Jake escaped the house again and was found wondering the neighborhood.

Maybe I’ll spend some quality time with my other three children who have been so patient and generous with their dad’s focus on Jake through the years.

Whatever I do, it will be very different than what I have done for the past 17 years. On one hand this is good—I have a lot to catch up on. On the other hand this is nearly impossible—as Jake has shaped my very character and purpose throughout most of my adult life.

Either way, I know this winter of our life is coming to an end. But at the same time a new season is blowing in like a spring thunderstorm. The storm will end soon, followed by milder weather, greener grass and lots of flowers. And perhaps now I will have time to walk with my wife, hold her hand, and smell them all.

How will my son be saved?

2010-04-29T11:24:00.000-07:00

“For by grace you are saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9)

The more I try to comprehend the sovereignty of God in salvation, the more I am astounded by His grace. That even the faith to believe is a gift given to those who deserve only His just wrath.

So the sovereign Lord gives us faith in His Son and we believe that Jesus came, lived a perfect life and died a sacrificial death for the payment of our sins. All the wrath of the Father justly reserved for us was cast upon His Son. All the righteousness of Jesus is transferred to us by grace through the work of the cross.

As one preacher so simply stated, “On the cross, God treated Jesus as if He had lived your life, so He could treat you as if you had lived His.” A profound paraphrase of 2 Corinthians 5:21

All of this is obtained by grace through faith. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is how this is applied, or better yet, how this works itself out in the life of an individual who cannot respond in faith, who cannot even speak, or who does not have the ability to comprehend the truth of the gospel.

I’m not thinking of the native in a far unreached part of the world that at least has a general revelation to point him towards more specific revelation.

I am thinking about my 17 year old son who has the mental capacity of a 2 year old.

I know Jake is a sinner—boy do I know. And I know that he is in desperate need of a Savior. I also know that salvation comes through repentance and faith, neither of which have I ever seen or could imagine seeing in my son’s life.

He does not understand the cross, or the sacrifice that was made. He knows nothing of his Adamic nature or fallen state. I’m not even sure that he treasures Christ above Jelly Belly’s or Santa Clause. So how can he be saved? How is the gift of faith applied to his lack of comprehension of the gospel?

I believe it all comes back to the main application of salvation for each of us—God’s undeserving grace. Yes, Jake is sinful. And yes, he is in desperate need of a savior. If he is saved from the just wrath of God, he will be saved by faith, but how that faith is gifted to him and in what capacity it is made manifest is still only through the mystery of God’s amazing grace.

I rest in that grace, not only for my own salvation, but for the salvation of my son.

I’m sure there is a lot of systematic theology that could be applied at this point, but I am not a theologian, I am a father. However, I do hope that no one mistakes my emotional parental response for a lack of searching the scriptures diligently for a solid answer to this important question.

I have poured over God’s promises like a doctor searching for a cure of the deadly disease in his own child, looking for hope and confidence in this grey area of my son’s life. There are many passages that give hints to the question I pose, but in the end I believe the passage in Ephesians 2 brings the most peace to my own soul—that Jake’s state is really no different from my own.

We are both separated from God by sin, in desperate need of a savior, and even if it is faith that appropriates our salvation, this faith is not our own doing—it is the gift of God. So that in the end our boast and our only hope is in the mysterious, amazing grace of God.

How will my son be saved?

“For by grace you are saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

I rest hopeful in God’s promises.

2010-04-26T09:26:00.000-07:00

"The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours." John Piper

Great Grace In The Small Things of Life

2010-04-23T08:36:00.000-07:00

“Flip a coin.”

What?

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

I joke with my wife in a humorous attempt to decide whose turn it is to handle bath time for Jake.

“I’ll do it.” She replies, with slight resignation in her voice.

“No, I’ll do it.” I respond accordingly to her weary tone. Such a mundane decision for most parents is actually an act of chivalry in our house. One of the most powerful phrases in our love language to each other is often, “I’ll give him his bath tonight.”

Admittedly, she has told me, “I love you” many more times than I have told her.

As I walk up the stairs to Jake’s bedroom I roll up my sleeves and literally stretch my shoulders, back and neck to prepare for the match.

He’s watching TV—flipping through the channels in a rhythmic pattern. The calming effect that the television has on Jake is amazing. Even more amazing is the complete and instantaneous evaporation of composure that occurs when I turn the TV off and begin running the bath water.

I have never bathed a cat, but I know what it’s like to bath a cat—even a family of cats, because I have bathed my son for 17 years. Jake does not like to get naked, he despises getting clean and he fears water. Combine the three and the unholy trinity surfaces for an epic battle, scheduled nightly, usually around 7:30PM.

I approach his bedroom like a UFC fighter entering the ring. My mental focus intensifies as the physical strategies begin sorting themselves out in my mind:

“Gloves on, water drawn, towel down, clothes off…butt cleaned, fight on, in the water, scrub down…wash hair, rinse hair, out of water, towel dry…lotion, commotion, tears like the ocean…dressed again.” It sounds like a strange rap song inside my head. Actually rap music would be more inviting than the noises I am about to hear.

Maybe I’ll wear the iPod tonight…put on the noise cancellation headphones and turn up the music to drown out the wailing and gnashing of teeth. There is something inspiring about putting human drama to a soundtrack. I imagine my life played to a Derek Webb song…or perhaps a Bob Kauflin hymn.

But much to my surprise tonight will be different; gloriously different.

Truth is you never know when or where the wind of God’s grace is going to blow. Grace is like that—unexpected, undeserved and unpredictable. Tonight God would reveal some of that mysterious grace in the peaceful blessing of His presence…at bath time.

As I reach the top of the stairs the wind of God’s grace blows through our house. No less for me than it did for Moses as he stood before the Red Sea, Joshua at Jericho, or Gideon at Jezreel.

To my utter amazement, Jake voluntarily, with a smile, walks into the bathroom and begins to get undressed…on his own.

Miraculously, his pants are not soiled. There is no wiping or fighting. I run the bathwater and he steps in without being coaxed. He motions for me to put some bubble bath into the water and the tub quickly fills up with suds. He’s happy tonight.

Then Jake does something that I have never seen him do; he lies back in the water and relaxes. I mean really relaxes. The ticks and twitches all but stop as he lies motionless in the warm bath. He does not whine. The room is perfectly quiet.

Taking advantage of the rare moment, I get the opportunity to just sit there and look at my son. He looks different tonight, almost like he has no disabilities at all. His glasses are off, his eyes are clear and the continual torment of anxiety has left his face for the moment.

The refraction of the light on the water makes his legs look straight and strong. His complexion is perfect in the soft glow of the bathroom lamp and for the first time in a long time at bath time—his demons are cast out and replaced with a tranquil peace.

I stared at Jake for a long time imagining what he would look like or be like without his afflictions and handicaps. For a brief moment I was given a picture of my son without his disability. It was a wonderful gift from a gracious God.

He stayed in the bathtub till the water got cold and then he stood up on his own to be dried off. As I wrapped the towel around him and lifted his 130 pound body from the water, I embraced him tightly.

He shivered slightly from the cold transition of the water to the warmth of the towel as he allowed me to hold him longer than he usually does. I smelled the strawberry shampoo in his hair and the clean scent of Dove soap on his cheek.

“Thank you.” I whispered in his ear…“And thank You.” I whispered in His ear.

Grace in the small things of life, is never small grace.

A Birthday Letter to My Son

2010-04-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Jake,

It’s hard to believe that you are 17 years old today. I woke up this morning wondering what happened to that little red headed boy that used to sleep on my chest at night and ride around on my shoulders everywhere we went during the day.

It seems like only yesterday when your mom came to me with the news that you would be our son. You were so tiny. We named you Jacob, after the grandson of Abraham, the youngest son of Isaac in the Bible; the son who was born small, weak, and insignificant but who was nonetheless chosen by God to be a Patriarch of a nation.

I still have the picture of you nestled inside of my old baseball glove wearing that miniature Cincinnati Reds baseball uniform. I didn’t have dreams of you actually becoming a patriarch, but I was sure you would grow up to be an All Star.

I can remember coming home from work late at night (actually early in the morning), just in time for your 2 AM feeding—getting you out of your crib, warming up a bottle and holding you all to my self. It was one of my favorite times of the day.

There in the peace of the morning, I was so content, just sitting in a dimly lit room watching you watch me—your eyes glued to mine—both of us speaking in deep, father-son conversation, without ever saying a word.

As you lay there on my lap taking your bottle, I would fascinate over your tiny, perfect hands, your smooth white cheeks and your fine strawberry hair. I couldn’t believe that I was a dad and you were my son. I was twenty-five when you were born and it was one of the happiest times of my life.

Then, just after your first birthday, you got sick and had to spend a lot of time in the hospital. Your mom and I were young and scared and didn’t know what to do when you stopped breathing and had seizures. We spent that entire year in hospitals and doctors offices trying to figure out what was causing you to be so sick. No one could give us any answers. No one could help you get better. We cried a lot that year. It was one of the most difficult times of my life.

Then, just as we were about to give up, we found someone who could help. He picked us up off the floor of our hopelessness, held us up with His strong arms, wiped away our tears with His gentle hands, and healed your seizures with His mighty power. He changed our lives forever. His name is Jesus, and you know Him well—for it was you that introduced us to Him.

From that point on, everywhere I went I told people your story, which has become my story, which is still today God’s story. He turned your tragic disability into a wonderful ability to impact lives and spread His fame. I am still amazed at your one simple life, so well lived in His amazing grace, with such a display of His fantastic glory. You were (and still are) an All Star on His team.

In John 9:1-3 Jesus proclaimed that a certain man’s disability existed, not because of sin or tragedy or misfortune, but that “the works of God might be displayed in him.”

Today, as you turn 17, the works of God have clearly been displayed throughout your life.
Today, thousands of people have heard your story. Many have been helped, healed and even saved. Someday, perhaps millions will hear of the power of God in your life. I’m working on it.

I am now 43, and as I sit here writing this letter to you I cannot help but wonder where the past 17 years of my life have gone. I found a box of pictures yesterday that took me back. You were so little; I was so young. Today you stand eye to eye with your dad, and I can no longer carry you in my own strength.

Your strawberry hair has turned rust and your face is in need of a shave. Your voice is a deep baritone and your hands are as big as my own. But as I look into your eyes I still connect with the silent conversations we had at those 2AM feedings—when all our dreams were so young, fresh and new. And I wait patiently, in hopeful anticipation, for the time to come when you are set free from your disability—a moment of eternity where we will walk steady and talk of deep things like father’s and sons do.

The past 17 years have been most difficult for us all. But I am amazed that when I look back, especially in pictures, I don’t see the difficulty. I see your smile and your magnetic personality. I see the moments where you and your brothers (the“Three Amigos”) did everything that brothers do. I can hardly even find your disability in those pictures. I guess that’s what it means to live life forward and to understand it backward.

It has not been easy being your dad, but it has been great. Greatness never comes with ease. I am proud that you are my son. I love you more than you will ever know this side of heaven. I cherish the memories of the past 17 years, and I look forward to the adventures to come in your life as you display more and more the works of God for all to see.

Happy birthday buddy,

Love Dad

Therefore, Clothe Yourselves...With Humility

2010-04-02T09:05:00.000-07:00

I used to pray for humility in raising my disabled son. I tried praying for patience once and that was a disaster (smile if you know what I’m talking about). Then I discovered that humility comes naturally with disability. You don’t even have to pray for it (I say that loosely). It just shows up when you need it most or when you think you don’t need it at all—which is usually when you need it most.

I am by nature a very prideful person; my son Jake is by nature a pride killer. I love that about him—usually not at the moment, but always afterwards in reflection. I love that about him because God loves humility and hates pride. I love that about him because even in his disability, he has the ability to be used by God as a messenger for my good and a vessel for God’s glory.

Truth is, sometimes we are so self-centered that we fail to see the most important things in life. Therefore, we fail to find true joy in things that are truly satisfying because we are so tied up with superficial cares. We are all guilty of this at one time or another. Jake takes my shallowness away and leaves me with real, lasting, eternal reflection.

And that’s exactly what humility does; it causes us to see what is actually significant in life—and what is not.

I remember hearing a pastor tell the story of the time he was invited to speak at a conference to hundreds of people about humility. He was going to be speaking to executives and CEOs as well as big church pastors and seminary presidents. So, he went out and bought a brand new suit just for the occasion.

He only paid $89.99 for the whole suit, but it looked like one that could easily cost $500.00 to $1,000.00. He was sure that all his contemporaries would be impressed and no one would know the difference between a cheap suit and an expensive one. The suit fit him nicely, probably nicer than any other suit he had. It made him look ten pounds lighter and ten years younger. As he got dressed in front of the mirror he thought, “I love this suit!”

When he arrived at the conference, he spent much of the evening before his sermon flaunting around the entire room shaking hands with important people, dignitaries, executives and such, thinking much of himself and his new suit.

Then, just before he was scheduled to speak, one of the pastors standing beside him pointed out something hanging from the sleeve of his brand new suit. There, dangling for all to see was a huge, 3x5 inch price tag with the numbers printed in bold “$89.99”.

Instantly, God made the humbled pastor the illustration for his own sermon.

Sometimes we are so concerned about what other people think and about our outward appearance, that we forget the message we are to deliver. And make no mistake, every parent of a disabled child has a message. It is a message of humility, dependence and grace. And from time to time we need someone to point out our pride so that our message will be more authentic.

Our message to the world is not, “I have it all together and I can handle anything that comes my way”. The message that should be preached by every parent of a disabled child is, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength”. There are many other messages that follow, but all originate from the strength of God given to weak people for the magnification of His fame.

We carry this message to make much of God, not ourselves. And in making much of God, we allow people to experience His grace and love through us.

Parenting a disabled child is a mighty message of love, patience, servant-hood and humility. If you think about it, your child is actually the preacher of this message. You are just the translator to an audience that cannot understand the mysteries of God borne in trials they have yet to experience. But what an illustration of humble grace your family becomes to those silently watching.

So the next time your disabled child makes a mess of your image, think about the real meaning of the message God is speaking to you and those around you though this unlikely preacher of humility, dependency and grace. And keep the price tag on for all to see what a great deal you really got.

The Contagious Comfort and Mercy of God

2010-03-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

One busy Saturday afternoon I was patrolling the local mall parking lot in my police cruiser. It was warm, so I had my windows down enjoying the fall air. As I drove though the lot I heard a loud piercing cry echoing like a sound bite from a horror movie.

At first I thought it was someone just playing around, and then I heard it again, and again. I began looking around the parking lot for someone being disemboweled because that was the sound I imagined would come with being ripped apart. Not knowing where it was coming from or what was happening; I called 911 on my radio and reported a “disturbance” in the parking lot.

As I rounded the next corner I found the source of the commotion. There in the middle of the parking lot sat a full grown man with his socks and shoes off hitting himself in the face and screaming uncontrollably. Hovering over him was an elderly gentleman trying his best to collect the socks and shoes and get him on his feet again.

The man sitting on the parking lot was much larger than the elderly gentleman and could not be budged. A confused crowd was forming around the two and at first sight I thought it was a horrible fight between two grown men. I notified 911 with my location and turned on my overhead emergency lights as I rolled up to the scene. Not until I got closer did I figure out what was going on.

The man on the ground was very obviously disabled and the elderly man was his father. I immediately cleared the crowd and asked the father if he needed any assistance. The elderly father explained to me that he had picked his son up for a day visit from the group home where he lived.

“I knew better than to go at it alone, but sometimes he does really well. I wanted to spend some time with him so I brought him to the mall. He was fine until we got to the parking lot. When he gets upset he takes off his socks and shoes in protest.” said the father. “His name is Donald”.

Donald was about 6’3” and weighed about 220 pounds. He was in his mid 30’s with a rough complexion and many self-inflicted battle scars. His emotions seemed to calm slightly when I arrived at the scene, but his face was still contorted with anxiety as he fumbled with his socks. Donald looked like he could handle himself—along with his father and me.

I knelt down to his eye level (even though he would not make eye contact) and said, “What’s going on buddy?” Again, the father began nervously explaining to me what was wrong with his son. I stood up and listened intently but all I could focus on was the hopeless defeat that saturated this man’s weary eyes and exhausted expression.

“I’m getting too old for this” the man said with a broken voice. I was guessing he was probably in his mid to late 60’s but looked to be 80. He was tall, thin, and frail with white balding hair, wearing a dark flannel shirt and blue jeans. He looked like an old farmer who had come to town in his pickup truck to get some supplies.

“I’m so tired.” He said as he turned away for a moment.

“I know what you are going through sir” I said, realizing how cliché it sounded after it left my mouth. “You do?” he said rather skeptically. “Yes, I do. I have a son just like your son. He’s much younger and not as big, but he has special needs just like your Donald and he displays very similar fits when he doesn’t get his way.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, “And I know you’re tired.”

I knelt back down on Donald’s level and picked up his shoes and socks. I wasn’t sure how he would react to me invading his space and I fully expected to be kicked or punched by this large, confused man. I slowly unballed his sock and began putting it back on his foot. He extended his leg in a sort of surrender to let me know that he would comply. I rolled the sock gently over his toes to his heal and then up to his ankle. His pale, crooked feet felt cold and damp and his long sharp toenails were in need of a trim.

Probably true to his age-old routine, he extended the other foot for me to do the same. Once I got both socks on, I unlaced his large tennis shoes and one by one slipped them onto his feet. I then cinched them up and gave them a double tie like I had done for my own son so many times before.

A stark vision of Jesus washing His disciples feet flashed across my mind and I wondered if this was what He meant when He said, “What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand.”

After getting Donald ready to get back on his feet again, (in a strategic attempt to gain leverage) I asked the father what Donald really liked. “Chicken nuggets and coffee” he replied.

I turned back to Donald and asked, “How would you like your dad to take you to get some chicken nuggets and coffee buddy?” He gave a silent nod of approval and we helped him off the ground and into the truck.

After getting Donald buckled in the front seat, the elderly father returned to his side of the truck with a simple expression of gratitude. He shook my hand in appreciation and said “Thanks” in a broken tone drained by the emotion of the moment.

I shot back with, “No problem, I do this for a living.” We both smiled with a strong connection as I gave him a pat on the shoulder opening the driver’s side door for him to get in.

I knew from experience that he wasn’t thanking me for helping him or his son as much as he was being grateful for receiving empathy instead of sympathy. Sometimes just being aware that someone else knows—I mean really knows—what you are going through is enough to bring great comfort in the midst of great despair.

As the two men drove off the parking lot in the old pick up truck I watched as the weary dad lifted his arm and placed it around the shoulder of his son. A prodigal never finds love so satisfying and sweet as he finds it in the unconditional arms of his father.

I realized I had just experienced a divine appointment. In response, I stood for a moment on holy ground praising the God of mercy and comfort, asking for more strength for the future with my own son. My worshipful prayer sounded like this:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the same comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)

When God Leaves No Footprints in the Sand

2010-03-15T13:27:00.000-07:00

“You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you,
you would walk with me always.
But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life
there has only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?”
The Lord replied,
“The years when you have seen only one set of footprints,
my child, is when I carried you.”

Who hasn’t been moved by those touching words from the poem “Footprints in the Sand”? Just to know that, even when we don’t realize it, God is going to be there in the difficult times and He carries us through the most trying times. So whether there are two sets of footprints or one set of footprints, God is faithful to deliver.

But what happens when there are no footprints?

Just recently, during a particularly troubling day, I came across Psalm 77, a sort of biblical version of “Footprints in the Sand” I guess.

The Psalmist begins the poem in anguish, “I cry aloud to God…In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord”. He goes on to talk about sleepless nights, waning faith, being spurned by the Lord and the inability to see His steadfast love or find His compassionate care.

So far so good--that's right where I'm at today.

Yet in the writer's anguish, there is a sense of familiar assurance, “I cry aloud to God…and He will hear me.”

How can the Psalmist know that the Lord will hear him? How can he know that God will be with him during this anguish? How can he know that God will carry him if need be? How can you and I know?

Verse 10. “I will appeal to this…I will remember the deeds of the Lord.”

Instead of looking around at his own circumstances and trying to formulate a theology of God based on situational emotion, the Psalmist searches the archives and checks God’s record of faithfulness.

“I will ponder all your work and meditate on your mighty deeds…You are the God who works wonders.”

Now for the most powerful aspect of the poem: The specific time the Psalmist recalls (to refresh his faith in the Lord) is the deliverance of God’s people from the hand of Pharaoh through the Red Sea. Instead of carrying His people on the beach, God took them through the stormy sea. “Your way was through the sea, Your path through the great waters.” Verse 19

Then the Psalmist says something at the end of verse 19 that is both frightening and profound, “…yet Your footprints were unseen.”

No calm beach, no pristine sunset, no gentle lapping waves, no peaceful puffy white clouds and no footprints—not two sets—not even one set.

So what is God saying in Psalm 77 and how should I respond? Here is what I wrote down in my notes:

1. When I cannot see God's faithfulness in my immediate circumstances I have an archive of His faithfulness to look back on. His record is spotless, His faithfulness is perfect.

My response: Therefore, I will not be swayed by emotion or fall into despair. Instead, I will run to His word, the Bible, for my source of strength and assurance.

2. God generally prefers to take us through the stormy sea rather than around it or beside it. It reveals more of my helplessness and more of His glory; more of my dependence and more of His strength. It also prepares me with a stronger testimony of His deliverance to share with others.

My response: Therefore, I will tell the stories of His miraculous deliverance to spread the fame of His name to a fallen world.

3. The absence of footprints does not mean God was missing during my trials or that He didn’t carry me. It only means that He is so much greater than all my obstacles, all my problems, all my circumstances that He can carry it all and not leave a single footprint.

My response: Therefore, I will not look for footprints in the sand. Instead I will look back at His perfect and spotless record of faithfulness in my life and the lives of others and realize, that is the biggest "footprint" of all.

What Are You Looking At?

2010-03-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

Someone recently asked me how I deal with people who stare at my disabled son in public?

Truth is, every time I venture out into public with Jake I am essentially inviting the world to see a little of God’s grace in the raising of my son. I try to maintain that attitude when looks become stares.

What bothers me most is that behind every stare is a thought, perhaps a question that needs answered or a statement that needs to be clarified. As the parent of a special needs child, I have learned to sometimes (not all times) interpret the stares and decipher the thoughts.

I have also formulated some responses to these stares--other than the initial, internal, emotional, rhetorical response of, "What are you looking at?"

Take for instance a recent trip to a crowded shopping mall where, without warning, Jake got mad and threw a box of candy (which contained about 500 or so Jelly Belly jelly beans—his favorite snack). As the box hit the tile floor of the mall, it exploded like a hand grenade, shooting sugary projectiles for 25 feet in all directions.

People froze as if they had suddenly wondered onto an unmarked mine field. Then, like spectators at the scene of a bad car wreck, every eye in the mall zoomed in on my screaming, disabled son as my wife and other children scrambled to clean up the mess.

So I’ll use this multifaceted shopping mall crowd to break down the stares:

1. The angry stare: “Someone needs to get that kid under control. If that were my child I would…”

Response: You would what? You’re right, someone does need to get this child under control. Do you have any ideas? Really? Enlighten us all with your parenting secrets.

2. The compassionate stare: “Oh that poor child and those poor parents, they look so weary. I wish there was something I could do for them”

Response: Why don't you start by helping my wife and kids pick up the Jelly Bellys. We are weary. Thank you for noticing (and that is a sincere thank you). What’s more important is the source of our strength. Your compassion is always welcome. Pray for us, but do not pity us. There are greater things happening here than any of us realize. And if you really want to do something skip down to stare #6.

3. The curious stare: “I wonder what is wrong with that kid.”

Response: I’ll write a book on it someday. Meanwhile, come and ask. (Preferably not right in the middle of an episode though or I might emotionally vomit out, "What's wrong with him? What's wrong with you!") When things settle down, I’d love to share our story with you. I especially don’t mind if you are a small child or young person.

4. The polite stare: “I think they just saw me staring. I shouldn’t stare. I’ll smile now just to let them know I wasn’t staring rudely.”

Response: Yeah, I saw you. It’s ok. I’ve been in the same position before, not knowing what to do. Thanks for the smile. Here’s one back at you.

5. The pretend to not stare, stare: “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Eyes forward. Just keep walking.”

Response: A kid just threw 500 jelly beans down on the mall floor. You didn’t notice? Are you kidding me?

6. The empathetic stare: “I wonder what it is like to live his life. I am thankful my children are not disabled, but I wonder if I could handle that role as a parent.”

Response: It’s heartbreaking sometimes, but it has its amazing moments too. Go home and pass ball with your kids. Squeeze them tight. Take a long walk, have a long talk, and thank God for them. But don’t forget that there are others out there that might need your help too. Get involved, volunteer, mentor, pray, educate and most importantly learn…these kids have much to teach.

I’m sure there are many more stares to interpret and many more responses to be communicated by special needs kids and parents everywhere.

The bottom line is this: the next time you’re in the mall and a Jelly Belly grenade goes off, be cool. Its ok to look...just stop and help us pick the darn things up.

The Strength and Beauty Behind My Stories

2010-03-02T07:21:00.000-08:00

“Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.” Proverbs 31:29

Today I’d like you to meet another one of my heroes—my wife, Kim. That's her hiding in the middle of the picture, surrounded by some of her greatest accomplishments. She’s a transport/flight nurse in the NICU at our local hospital. She saves lives every time she goes to work. But that’s only part of the reason she’s one of my greatest heroes.

Kim is also the driving force in our family when it comes to making sure that Jake (and the other kids) get exactly what they need, to be all they can possibly be.

I sometimes write my blog like I’m on this journey alone. Truth is I stand on the shoulders of my wife as I tell the adventures and lessons of raising our son. I am the voice of this story; she is the heart and soul.

Kim is Jake’s greatest defender this side of heaven. She is the determined ambassador for his good, the skilled advocate for his rights, and the tenacious maintainer of his joy.

Teachers respect her, parents listen to her, and young interns sometimes fear her. But in the end all come to know and love her as Jake’s mom, the woman who would give her last breath to make sure her son is cared for in the best possible way.

So today I bow in love and respect to this great, godly lady who would prefer to stay backstage where the unseen work is to be done, rather than take the spotlight where the story is told and the accolades are given.

And like most men who appear to say and do great things, the unseen strength and beauty of our stories will always be found in the humble fortitude of the great women who walked beside us.

“An excellent wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels. The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain…Strength and dignity are her clothing and she laughs at the time to come.” Proverbs 31:10,11,25

The Difference Between An Answer to Prayer and The Answer to Prayer

2010-02-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

“For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as I am known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

One of the longest, most reoccurring prayers I have ever prayed is for my son to be able to speak. If I could heal just one aspect of his condition, if I could give him just one gift for his physical ailment, it would be the gift of speech. For years I prayed to God to give my son a voice, to allow him to be able to communicate.

To have a conversation with Jake is perhaps one of my greatest desires on earth, and just one of the things for me that will make heaven especially sweet. I have so many things I want to tell him and, more importantly, so many things I want to hear from his heart.

God has given me an answer to that prayer, but He has yet to give me the answer. Let me explain.

Here are some of the ways God has granted me an answer to my prayer:

• Some Important words: Jake can say “Momma”, “Dad-da”, “Maw-maw”, “Grand-dad” and “Ho-ho-ho” (Santa Clause). These are some of the words he uses on a daily basis. Yes, we hear about Santa Clause all year round.

• Some necessary signs: He can sign words like, “Jesus”, “Bible”, “shoes”, “play”, “please”, “sorry”, “candy”, “drink” and “eat”.

• Some beautiful singing: He loves to stand in church, or anywhere for that matter, with an open hymnal in hand and sing. His singing is one long baritone note that he can hold and repeat for a much extended period of time.

• Some powerful preaching: He also loves to carry a Bible with him (everywhere). He likes to stand with Bible open and pretend he is reading. Because he is standing, I assume he is preaching.

There are other “nonverbal” forms of communication Jake has developed over the years, like:

• The folding of the arms and the shaking of the head and the looking over his glasses for, “No way—not in this lifetime”.

• The raising of his arms in the air, jumping up and down and yelling loudly with a celebratory smile for, “YES! I really approve of this moment”.

• The hug, kiss and or the blowing a kiss for, “I love you” or “Goodbye”

Finally, there is God’s gift of computers. Jake uses a handheld computer with a picture touch screen that communicates just about any phrase you could think of. When talking on the phone with him you might hear a mechanical voice saying:

• “I love you”
• “I miss you”
• “I want to go to Maw-maw’s house”

This is the difference between AN answer to prayer and THE answer to prayer:

Our sovereign Lord has the ability to grant everything we ask for. But like any loving Father, He has more in store for us than what we could ever think to ask for. (Ephesian 3:20)

In His infinite wisdom, God answers our prayers with glimpses of the greatness to come. He allows us a foretaste of His glory by revealing a shadow of His blessings.

The full answers to our prayers and the full glory of His blessings will only come in eternity—but they will be there for an eternity. This loving anticipation keeps us from trusting in the temporal things by keeping us longing for the eternal things.

Now I will communicate with my son nonverbally, through sign language, a hand full of words and a computer. Then I will sit, talk, laugh and discover in deep, meaningful, God-glorifying conversation for an eternity.

The former is an answer to prayer; the latter is the answer to prayer.

Payday for Those Who Go Broke for The Broken

2010-02-18T09:29:00.000-08:00

In Luke 14, Jesus gives this savvy investment advice, "When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid."

I read that and I say to myself, “But that’s the very people I want to invite—the people that are an investment. My friends—who will compliment my house; my relatives—who will fill the party with love and closeness; and of course my rich neighbor—who will now be associated with me thus increasing my reputation and possibly putting me in close proximity to more successful investors.”

But could it be that Jesus has even a better deal for those who would be courageous enough to invest in the high risk stock option? Read on.

But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

They cannot repay you? What kind of an investment is this?

That is a question I admittedly struggle with from time to time while caring for my son. Most times he gives little in return. Many times he gives nothing. Sometimes he takes everything. And I find myself empty and broke.

And so one of the promises that keeps me investing day after day is the assurance of the most glorious payday ever. I’m not talking about a heavenly status reward, a doubling of my talents, a bigger mansion or even an “atta boy” from God.

I’m talking about the real payday for all those who live by faith in Christ and spend themselves on people who cannot give anything in return.

Your payday, Jesus says, will be at the resurrection of the righteous when those you guided in the darkness are now able to see for the first time; when those you strained to carry are now able to run; when those you pushed in wheelchairs are now walking beside you and leaping with joy; when those who could not speak, now have an eternity to tell you everything they always wanted you to hear.

“Although they cannot pay you (now), you will be repaid…” That’s the banquet I am looking forward to.

That’s my payday.

My Hope in Adoption

2010-02-13T13:58:00.000-08:00

I'll be deviating just a little from my usual post about life with Jake in order to share with you just a glimpse of life with Hope; this being the 3rd anniversary of her “Gotcha Day” and the celebration of the Chinese New Year.

We have experienced the miracle of adoption in our diverse tribe four times over the past 16 years starting with Jake, then later with Noah and Aaron, and finally (maybe finally) with Hope.

Hope’s adoption was a little different than that of the boys. There was a large ransom to pay, a great journey to travel and a completely different culture to invade.

About half way through the two year process of our adoption, a little girl was born to a frightened mother in Beihai, Guangxi China. Because of China’s “one child law”, the baby girl was wrapped in a blanket and left abandoned in front of the Social Welfare Institute of Beihai. A policeman found her there and took her to the local orphanage where she was added to the long list of displaced children.

Thirteen months later my wife and I boarded a plane and flew to the other side of the world. With passports in hand, a briefcase full of government documentation, and $8000.00 in U.S currency (not including the $12,000.00 of additional fees that brought us to this point), we landed in Beijing, China to begin the in country process of bringing our daughter home.

We paid the orphanage and governmental fees, signed the legal documentation giving “Guo Jing Long” full rights as our daughter, gave her the new name of Hope, and brought her into our family.

What a personal, panoramic view God gave us of Ephesians 1:3-14.

Before Hope was born or even conceived, we began the process to bring her home as our daughter. She was ours before she existed, before she had anything to offer in return. At a specific point in time we traveled to the ends of the earth to effect her rescue, pay her ransom and bind the covenant that would give her our name and with it, full rights as a citizen and a daughter.

There is a Chinese proverb that says, “A fine red thread connects everyone who is destined (or predestined) to meet. That thread may tangle and it may stretch, but it will never break.”

That thread is stained red with the blood of the One who is a Defender of orphans and who, by His miracle of adoption, places the lonely in families.

Copy and paste this link to your browser for a video adventure of our China adoption

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3LpVCkN1ZY

How Do I know? A Little Bird Told Me.

2010-02-09T05:45:00.000-08:00

I had a difficult time sleeping last night. I think I finally dozed off around 1am after wrestling with a bout of anxiety over my lack of middle-aged accomplishments and my overabundance of failures. I thought of finances and the future and the fleeting aspects of life all in comparison to what I have had, have now, and will or will not have in the future. It was rather depressing and exhausting.

After a sleep deprived night, I woke up early this morning to a clean snow on the ground; the symbolism of purity, freshness and peace. I love getting up early when it snows. I like to see the snowfall completely undisturbed before footprints, dog pee, and car tires mess it all up.

But it was not the thought of snow that woke me up this morning before daylight. It was the sound of birds. The only time I hear birds singing on a winter morning is after a fresh snowfall.

Why? Because they are hungry. Actually they are starving to death. And since I have a large bird feeder outside my kitchen window that stays full all winter, they depend on that seed for survival, especially when the temperature drops below zero and the snow covers the ground.

While the cry of hungry birds woke me and the pristine fresh snow enticed me, neither was enough to get my tired and sleepy body out of bed after a rather restless night. It was cold outside, my bed was warm, I was finally getting drowsy and I wanted to sleep till 10.

Then I heard it...a small voice from the darkness of my bedroom, much like the voice of an angel. At first it sounded like a dream, but then it became real and present in the room with me, “The bird feeder is empty...the birds are hungry...they need some seed.”

I imagine it was similar to the still small voice that Elijah heard on Mount Horeb, after the whirlwind, fire and earthquake…maybe even a little softer, but nonetheless just as convincing.

As I opened my foggy eyes I caught a fleeting glimpse of the angel complete in soft flowing gown and glowing face. It was my four year old daughter, Hope. “Daddy, the birds are hungry. They are tweeting outside my window and I cannot sleep. You need to fill up the bird feeder.”

I rose from my bed as if summoned by the Lord Himself, put on my sweatshirt and hiking boots, went to the garage, got the ladder and the bag of seed and went outside in the snow to fill the feeder.

I poured the seed in, spilling some onto the untouched snow intentionally for the ground feeders, and I thought to myself, “These birds really depend on this seed to live. Without it many of them would perish in the cold snow and instead of waking up to the beauty of a pristine, undisturbed snowfall, I would have woke to a cold, white blanket dotted with tiny little feathered corpses.”

As I finished pouring the bird buffet, I could hear the sound of thanksgiving whistling from the leafless trees all around the perimeter of my yard. “Your welcome,” I said out loud, rather sarcastically, hoping my neighbors didnt see me in my underwear and hiking boots standing in the snow talking to birds.

I put the ladder and the seed back in the garage, knocked the snow off my boots, fixed me some coffee and grabbed my Bible. The little messenger angel had already gone back to her heavenly abode and, except for the bird choir worshipping at my kitchen window, all was peaceful in my warm house.

A comfortable chair embraced my sore back and I placed my feet by the fire still feeling the weary effects of last nights sleep-wrestling tournament. I then turned to Matthew chapter 6 and read these words,

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?”

And thus my paraphrase,

“Stop worrying and losing sleep over stuff you have no control over. I have bigger plans for you than what you could ever imagine. Want proof? I sent a bird to your daughter’s window with a message. I sent your daughter to your bedside with a revelation. I sent you to the bird feeder, in your underwear, in the freezing snow, with life-giving sustenance all for a small flock of feathered Parus Carolinensis (scientific name for the particularly small birds at my feeder). I love you more than I love these birds and will take care of you accordingly. Got it?”

Got it Lord, I think I’ll go back to sleep now.

The Sovereign Solution to a Cold Case Crime

2010-02-03T11:01:00.000-08:00

“…according to the purpose of Him who works all things according to the counsel of His will…” Ephesians 1:11

Many times over the past 16 years or so, probably due to my investigative nature and police mentality, I have returned in my mind to the possible source of my son’s handicap. Like an unsolved, cold case, murder mystery I pour over the evidence and attempt to solve this heinous crime.

Before we adopted Jake, he was born to a drug abusing mother and a biological father who had an extensive criminal and drug history. Was the drug use to blame? His biological mother received no prenatal care during her pregnancy. Was the mother’s negligence to blame? Jake was born almost two months premature. Was his premature birth to blame? He had severe seizures for almost a year as a baby. Were the seizures to blame?

I get angry when I think of all the negligence, stupidity, ignorance, sickness and sin that may have contributed to the mental and physical state my son lives in today. I want to avenge. I desire justice for my son.

Then I read Ephesians 1, and right around verse 11, I stand in awe of a much bigger picture.
I know there is a lot more going on in the first chapter of Ephesians, but in the lines of this inspired letter I discover some case breaking truths.

Before my son’s seizures God had a purpose. Before the premature birth, He had a plan. Before the drug abuse, the negligence, the criminal history there was intention in the design of the Creator of the universe on behalf of one broken little boy.

“Before the foundations of the world” verse 4 tells us, the predestined purpose of my son, and millions like him, was being worked out “according to the counsel of God’s will.”

I don’t pretend to fully understand that. But this weighty passage serves as a heavy anchor that keeps me steady in the most violent of opposing storms.

This anchor is not the security of a useless cliché that falls from the lips of well meaning Christians, “God knows what you’re going through.” Of course He does, He’s God. Instead it is the promise that God has an intentional plan for what you are going through. A plan that works all things according to the counsel of His will...a plan that precedes time and supersedes circumstances.

Ephesians 1 completes my investigation. My son is not a pitiful tragedy blamed on negligence or ignorance. He is a mysterious element of a divine plan. A predestined purpose of God’s will to the praise of His glorious grace. A display of the immeasurable greatness of God’s power according to the working of His great might.

Case closed.

Where The Broken Are Swift And The Weak Are Strong

2010-01-28T08:50:00.000-08:00

I hear religious minded people say all the time, with good intentions, “God will never place a burden on you that you cannot carry.”

Really?

My experience is that God will place a burden on you so heavy that you cannot carry it...alone. He will break your strong back and crush your independent will. He will buckle your stubborn legs until you fall flat underneath the crushing weight of your load. And there on the ground, flat on your face you will find written on the pavement of your pain, “My grace is sufficient for you, My power is made perfect in your weakness.”

When Jake was small, he could not walk very well at all. He wore braces on his legs to help keep him steady, but still ended up more on his face than on his feet. He ran like a newborn colt looking as if every step might be his last. Jake's favorite mode of transportation has always been on the back or the shoulders of his dad.

Whether at the mall or on a neighborhood stroll, up the stairs or down the stairs, when Jake had exhausted all of his strength and began to get unstable, I would pick him up off the ground, lift him high in the air and place him on my shoulders. He would always squeal with a kind of victorious joy at his new powerful position.

I think this is what the apostle Paul meant when he said in 2 Corinthians 12:10 "When I am weak, then I am strong." Paul knew better than any of us that falling and failing always resulted in God picking him off the ground and placing him high upon the strongest shoulders in the universe.

The physical and mental demands of raising a special needs child may never get easier and the emotional load may never cease to take everything you have on any given day. But remember, God plans it that way in order to bring you to a place of true strength. High on the shoulders of our heavenly Father is a vantage point of fortitude where the broken are swift and the weak are strong.

Unassuming Heroes Are Hard To Find

2010-01-21T11:51:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the greatest heroes around us are those who go quietly throughout life doing great things with little or no self recognition. And they keep doing these things not because they want to be renowned or held in high esteem, but because they just couldn't imagine doing it any other way. I have a hero in my life that fits that description.

His Name is Noah and he is my gentle giant of a son. He is also a brother and a friend to my special son, Jake. Noah has shared his life, his space and his room with Jake for the past 12 years. Before you think this is no big deal for brothers to share a room together, consider life with Jake.

Most mornings are spent coaxing Jake out of bed, getting him changed and dressed, teeth brushed, fed, groomed and off to school.

After school Jake goes into his “at home routine” that if disturbed can get real ugly, real fast. He takes over the bedroom with his TV shows and a pile of smuggled snacks. Jake is also a little OCD and must have the room arranged and re-arranged several times a day to his specific guidelines. He has a fascination with certain clothing and must change shirts 5 to 6 times a day. Going through the drawers and closets looking for new shirts like a pirate plundering a treasure chest, he can sometimes cause considerable damage to the things around him.

The evening is filled with bath time, more changing, more grooming, medication and finally bedtime. Jake only sleeps about 5 hours a night and that sleep is not very peaceful. He rolls, grunts and kicks the wall with his feet almost the entire night.

Add to this the smells of dirty diapers, the messes of smuggled and secretly stashed food and the constant invasion of privacy and destruction of personal property, one could understand if a typical teenage boy got just a little frustrated and demanded things change to better fit his own living arrangements. But Noah is not a typical teenage boy.

For 12 years he has not only helped with these special needs of his brother, bathing, changing, feeding, grooming etc., he has done so without ever grumbling, complaining or arguing about it. Not one time in 12 years has he said, "Dad, mom, I'd really like to have my own room where Jake can't tear everything up and where I can sleep undisturbed through the night…maybe a room that doesn’t smell so much like a nursing home."

(We actually tried to give Noah his own room once, only to find Jake curled up in the bed beside him the next morning.)

So the next time you find yourself measuring heroes by their athletic skill, superior strength, marketed wealth or articulated self promotion, I’d like you to consider some of the real heroes around us. Those heroes who quietly go through life doing what is good and right, not because they want to be credited or recognized, but because they just couldn’t imagine doing it any other way.

Heroes like my son.

"I Love You...No Matter What"

2010-01-18T08:09:00.000-08:00

Almost daily I have to physically restrain my son. It is a physical battle to change his diaper and clean his body. Many times while cleaning and changing him I have been kicked in the face, bitten, smacked, clawed, or hit with flying objects. It is not all that uncommon to come away from a cleanup with a bloody lip or a new scratch.

Jake is the size of a small man now…and stronger than most full sized men. It takes at least two people to bathe him—one to hold him down, the other to scrub. My wife and I (and now my biggest teenage son) have developed a system of strength in numbers as we attempt to get in, get the job done, and get out without too much damage.

I must confess that on many mornings I leave Jake’s room dejected, hurt and emotionally drained. And many nights I find myself restraining the violent resistance of a struggling boy by wrapping him in my arms against his will and gently whispering, “I love you. I love you. I love you…no matter what.”

Most children are relational and have the ability to reciprocate affection. But what happens when the child cannot communicate love? How does the relationship between parent and child grow and thrive when the child is not relational? What bonds parent and child together when the child does not share in the affection? How do you care for someone that resists your care with violence and opposes your very presence even when your presence is for his good?

The only possible way to make any sense of this kind of relationship is to experience it through the truly unconditional love of God the Father. As I reflect on my seemingly one sided relationship with my son, I am forced to see how it is sometimes a portrait of my own relationship with God.

In the defiance of my son to be loved, cared for and washed clean, I am shown a portrait of the cross. The one-sided violence of love reveals a blurred vision of my own redemption, as a bloody, beaten, crucified Savior wraps me in His arms, subdues me with His affection and whispers in my ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you…no matter what.”

Cleaning Up Crap and Preaching Hope

2010-01-16T08:23:00.000-08:00

As a parent of a special needs child you have probably often seen yourself as a janitor. I know from experience that kids are messy, but special kids have special messes and some days it seems like we are spending our entire lives wiping butts, blowing noses, changing clothes, giving baths, brushing teeth and combing hair. Most parents go through a season of this and are able to graduate to a more independent child. However, some special needs children need a lifetime of basic care and even the basic tasks can become exhausting over the years.

Every parent rejoices when the baby is finally out of diapers, but imagine how tiring it is to change diapers several times a day for 16 years, knowing that there will be no graduation to independence.

As a parent of a special needs child, I have had to roll up my own sleeves and conquer smells and disasters that would make Mike Rowe’s “Dirty Jobs” look mild.

Once while at one of my youngest son’s Little League Baseball games Jake was sitting in the crowded stands between my wife and I when we simultaneously looked at each other with that panicked look of “Oh my goodness…what’s that smell?” (It has happened so many times that we don’t even verbally communicate it anymore. It just comes with a certain coded look we give each other).

We then looked at Jake, who was about 13 at the time—a fully grown teenage boy, and watched his face turn from beet red to ghost-rider pale. Knowing what was now in process I grabbed his hand and attempted to persuade him up and out of the stands. As he stood up, a soft, brown, rancid, liquid began pouring out the bottom of his shorts onto the bleachers.

(My mind instantly flashed back to the time at the crowded public swimming pool when I was trying to coax Jake down the slide into the water. Surrounded by about 20 preschoolers and soccer moms I watched in horror as the water coming down the slide into the pool turned brown. Like a scene straight from the movie “Jaws” mothers were grabbing their children and running from the water in hysterical panic. Not the first or the last swimming pool we have shut down.)

I tried my best to get his mind off of the “code brown” and onto evacuating the scene, but it was too late. As Jake’s sensory integration took over, the smell triggered his gag reflex and he began to gag and vomit. This only added to his embarrassment resulting in a fit of anger in which he began biting himself and screaming.

People began dispersing like it was a terrorist attack, some in anger not knowing my son had some underlying issues and some just out of uncomfortable fear. Finally in desperation I picked the boy up, threw him over my shoulder, and carried him out like a wounded soldier from the battlefield. I retreated to the car and then home for the cleanup while my wife stayed for the much tougher cleanup at the ball field.

Sometimes we are the janitor.

If you are the parent of a special needs child, or any child for that matter, then you know the role of the janitor. But I wonder if you have ever seen yourself as a pastor? By “pastor” I don’t mean leading a church and preaching to a congregation. In Matthew 18:12-14 Jesus teaches the disciples about the importance of the “little ones”.

What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly, I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. So it is not the will of my Father who is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.

The Greek word for “pastor” (poimen) literally means “shepherd” or one who watches over sheep. Pastors are called to shepherd the flock of God, the church. Jesus is also referred to as a shepherd or the “Chief Shepherd” in 1 Peter 5:4 and the “Good Shepherd that lays down his life for the sheep” in John 10:11.

In a similar way every parent is a shepherd and every child is a sheep. And which one of you, if you had a house full of children, and one was lost, would not leave the whole house full to go and find the one that was missing? I like to look at special needs parenting as just that. We are shepherding little lambs, some are broken and some run away.

Another very important job of the pastor is to (obviously) preach. Most of us would not consider ourselves preachers, but the truth is we are all preaching something to someone. Just the way we live our lives and respond to our circumstances can be a mighty sermon to those around us.

As you shepherd your special child never forget that you are, at the same time, delivering a powerful message of God’s grace and strength to those watching you. Through trouble, trial, perseverance and pain, God has used my son to demonstrate His strength and grace to hundreds—if not thousands of people.

Yes, its true we are called to be janitors. We must roll up our sleeves, get down on our hands and knees and do the thankless cleaning of messes that no one else could imagine cleaning up. But we are also called to be pastors and preachers, shepherding these little lambs and sharing God’s message of hope in the midst of all that seems hopeless to a watching world. And believe it or not, being a good janitor makes us better pastors and preachers.

Our message to the world is not, “I have it all together and I can handle anything that comes my way”. The message that every parent of a special needs child should be, “I can do all things through Him who gives me strength”. We carry this message not only to make much of God, but in making much of God to allow people to experience His grace and love through us.

Special needs parenting is a mighty message of love, patience, servant-hood and humility. (Your child is often the actual preacher of this message and you sometimes become the translator to an audience that cannot understand the language of God.) But what an illustration of grace your family becomes to those silently watching.

God hates pride. He hates it because it is an attempt to steal His glory and shirk our reliance and dependence on Him. He hates it because it kills our mission and our message. But the real reason God hates our pride so much is because He loves us so deeply. He has so many better things in store for us. So the next time you find yourself cleaning up messes that you think you are too good to clean up, remember God has called you to be a humble janitor in order to make you a better pastor and preacher.

Finding Greatness in Humility

2010-01-15T11:22:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite passages in the Bible comes from Matthew 18:1-4 where Jesus is teaching His disciples about true greatness. The disciples are thinking of greatness in the typical fashion of power, authority and position. I would have loved to have been there that day when Jesus defined true greatness.

… He called a child to Himself and set him before them, and said, “Truly I say to you, unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.

I have a sneaking suspicion that if there happened to be a little child with Down Syndrome or Autism in the crowd that day, Jesus would have pick them. For even the most intellectual of us are all mentally handicapped in the shadow of the Almighty.

After choosing a child from the crowd, and probably placing the child on His lap, Jesus sets the example and definition of true greatness:

“Whoever then humbles himself as this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

Greatness is defined by humility; the humility of a child. And even though children are not always humble, they are very good teachers of humility. Nowhere is this more evident than in the life and family of a child with special needs.

I smile even now as I think about the time we visited a large church in Louisville, KY where I was attending seminary. We took Jake to the nursery with the other kids and settled into the pew for some good edification from the well known pastor and preacher, who also happened to be a Dean and Professor at the seminary.

About half way through the sermon I noticed the Nursery Director peeking through the doorway that led to the choir loft behind the pulpit. (This Nursery Director ended up being one of our best friends--Jake always had a gift for choosing some of our best friends.)

It soon became obvious that the Nursery Director was searching for something, or someone. As I scanned the empty choir loft I found what she was looking for. The soft red hair of my son slowly began to rise above the choir chairs centered right behind the pastor.

As Jake rose from the balcony like an angel in a Christmas pageant, every eye in the congregation became fixed on him. Jake, knowing that he had now fully captured the attention of the congregation, stood fully upright crossing his arms with a smile of victory. The Nursery Director began frantically trying to coax him towards the door with no success. He wasn’t giving up this spot for all the animal crackers in preschool.

What made the situation even more chaotic was the fact that Jake had positioned himself right behind the pastor and so it appeared to the pastor that all eyes were on the preacher and the sermon. However, it became rather confusing for the pastor when the entire congregation began to snicker at the antics of the nursery worker trying to persuade Jake.

The snicker turned into a steady rumbling laugh as the nursery worker got down on her hands and knees and low crawled like an army commando behind the chairs trying to capture Jake only to be thwarted as he ran down the isle to the next row of chairs. Finally, when Jake sternly crossed his arms in defiance and shook his head as if to say, “No way teach” the congregation broke out into a full belly laugh.

The pastor grew more uncomfortable still not knowing what all the commotion was about, no doubt wondering if he had said something funny, done something wrong or his pants had just fallen down.

In the meantime I sank lower and lower in my seat looking for the nearest exit leading to anywhere but here, until my wife finally elbowed me and said, “Go get him!” In my humbled state, I rose from my pew walked to the front of the church, up into the choir loft, and led my son back to the nursery from which he had escaped, both of us waiving to the congregation in proud humiliation.

I’m not sure what the pastor was preaching on that morning. For the life of me I cannot remember a single word or verse from his message. But neither the pastor, the Nursery Director, nor I will never forget the message that Jake preached that day to about 600 people.

It was a sermon on humility--the humility of a child.

At The End Of Your Rope...Waits Purpose and Hope

2010-01-14T08:59:00.000-08:00

Shortly after Jakes first birthday came the day that our world and life as we knew it, and hoped for it to be, was forever changed. I was at work and Kim had placed Jake into a backpack carrier and had headed out the door to walk to her sister’s house just three blocks away.

When she arrived, Kim’s father noticed that Jake was sleeping and asked why his lips looked blue. Kim immediately in a mother’s panic turned to Jake to see him unresponsive, unconscious and not breathing. The nurse in her took over instinctively with choking drills and CPR. An ambulance was called and Jake was transported to the hospital. He came in and out of consciousness during this time but would continue to stop breathing, turning blue and appearing lifeless.

I received a call from 911 and rushed to the hospital in my police cruiser with lights and sirens blaring. After being stabilized and medicated, Jake was admitted to the pediatric unit for observation and testing. Kim, having an extensive medical background, knew exactly what it was. The doctors affirmed her diagnosis when they told us that Jake was suffering from apnea related seizures.

One minute he would be fine and then the next minute he would stop breathing, go limp, turn blue, stiffen out and then wake up again crying. There was absolutely nothing we could do to get him to breathe during the course of the seizure. It just had to run its course. In the hospital he was sedated and hooked up to every tube, wire, cord and machine imaginable. But even with all the medical technology available, the doctors still could not tell us what was causing the seizures or how they could be stopped.

They finally sent us home with a monitor to watch his heart rate and breathing along with some seizure medicine to hopefully control the seizures. For many nights thereafter we would be awakened in the middle of the night by the shrill sound of the breathing monitor (sounding something like a household smoke detector). Jumping out of bed from a deep sleep, we would run into his room, look into his crib and find Jake lifeless and blue as if he were dead.

It was a taxing time in our lives to say the least. The lack of sleep, stress of work and the distress of uncertainty eventually took its toll in breaking us down physically, mentally and emotionally. Even now as I look back I can feel the tightness in my chest and the pain of disappointment, hopelessness and stress. Kim and I were so young and the whole parenting role just kind of fell into our laps. We didn’t know what to expect. But we never expected this. We were both working opposite shifts in order that one of us could be home at all times. We were passing each other in the doorway with a glancing hug or kiss, too exhausted to make much sense out of anything. We loved this little boy so much and we were doing all we could to give him what he needed, but we felt so helpless.

Over the next year the seizures progressed along with our mental fatigue and growing hopelessness. We took Jake to every doctor and specialist we could find, in and out of hospitals and doctor’s offices. With every visit came a new drug, a new solution with anticipation followed by faded hope as the seizures continued. By this time Jake was in a perpetual stated of stupor. From the seizures to the drugs given to control the seizures, his happy, bubbly personality sunk to a dazed lethargic existence.

It was sometime in the midst of this dark season that we both came to the end of our rope and the bottom of our strength. And it was here in this pitch black pit of desperation that God showed up. Actually, we found out that He had been there all along patiently pursuing us with His enduring love. We both considered ourselves to be Christians at the time but there was little evidence to our professed faith.

We discovered that there is a time and place where faith is tested and made evident. Few comfortable, stable people find that place. It is reserved for those who truly come to the end of themselves and find that the hole in their soul stuffed with every solution the world has to offer can only be satisfied with the One thing that it was created for. Like the Apostle Paul we later understood that, “Indeed, we had the sentence of death within ourselves so that we would not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead.”

From that point forward we approached life and our son’s illness with faith and hope, not that God would miraculously heal Jake, although we prayed He would, but more importantly that God would be our strength through this life He had so mysteriously planned for us. We were chosen by God for what appeared to be a lifelong mission. It was not our tragedy, it was our calling.

"What Do They Call Children Like This Today?"

2010-01-13T09:55:00.000-08:00

There seems to be a lot of concern these days about kids being re-educated not to use the word “retarded”, which has become one of the most used of all derogatory words aimed at describing someone or something that is really unintelligent.

I understand the argument against using this word, but if you are not going to label kids who are “behind the curve” with this word than why not use it for a descriptive word? One of the funniest (and intelligent) things I’ve ever heard was an autistic child calling a mainstream kid “retarded” when the kid said something really stupid.

Years ago an older lady, who was lost for an expressive phrase, referred to my son as "retarded". Then, nervously, she asked, "What is it they call children like this today?" This well meaning lady had lived in an era when the word “mentally retarded” was the universal label placed on everyone who had any type of learning disability. In her day if you were less than normal on the Bell curve you were “slow” and if you were too slow you were “retarded” (which is actually synonymously redundant). So back to her question, “What is it they call people like this today?”

I like the label “special needs”. Again, the argument against using the term is why I like it most. The argument against it says, “It’s too broad. All kids have special needs.” Having four of them, I couldn't agree more. And I think that’s why I like this label best. Instead of totally segregating these children, this term lets them be part of the group while allowing helpful consideration for their limitations. It also allows the rest of society to remain empathetically comfortable around these children. Everyone can relate to having special needs…we all have them. Again, let me stress that this whole game is just semantics and is only helpful if it is helpful to the parent and the child.

I can remember the panic that overtook me when the doctor diagnosed Jake as “developmentally delayed”. Later it became “developmentally disabled” then “Severely developmentally disabled”. When he stopped breathing he had an “apnea seizure disorder”. When he became extremely sensitive to touch and sounds he had “sensory integration disorder”. When he could not speak he was “ankyloglossitis non-verbal”. When his eyes crossed he had “strabismus”. When the bones in his legs began to bow he had “osteoporosis”. When he spent his entire day lining up objects, he had “obsessive compulsive disorder”. When he could not sit still for one moment, he had “attention deficit disorder.” When he received the diagnosis of “autistic” it had to be supplemented with “pervasive developmental disorder non-otherwise specified.” When we participated in Special Olympics I noticed their label of preference was “intellectually challenged”

Pretty soon, the labels and diagnosis became mundane and almost comical. So when someone would ask, “What’s wrong with your son?” I could either reply with, “He is severely developmentally delayed and intellectually challenged with a history of apnea seizure disorder mixed with sensory integration, ankylo-glossitis and a bit of strabismus added to his obsessive compulsive disorder and attention deficit disorder and a slight autistic bend into pervasive developmental disorder non-otherwise specified.” Or I could just say, “He has some special needs.” To which most people could comfortably reply, “Don’t they all honey.”

This is my son

2010-01-13T07:26:00.000-08:00

My son’s name is Jacob, we call him Jake. He is named after the grandson of Abraham, the youngest son of Isaac in the Bible; the son who was born small, weak, and insignificant but who was nonetheless chosen by God to father a nation of great and mighty people. God works like that. The Bible says He often chooses the foolish to shame the wise; the weak to shame the strong. Or maybe He chooses the foolish and weak to teach the wise and strong that true wisdom and strength comes not in ability, but in reliability on something or Someone wiser and stronger than yourself.

Living with and raising my son over the past 16 years has taken everything from me. It has sapped my strength, scattered my brain, broken my heart and tested my faith. But it has also caused me to see that this is not just my son’s story, it is my story. It is the eternal story of God's grace with me.

In perspective, I am the handicapped one here. God is my Father, so gently and patiently caring for me and meeting my needs. He pursues me into the busy roadways when I run off uncontrolled and He holds my hand in the crowd so I won’t get lost. He feeds me, cleans me and dresses me. He understands my silence and speaks for me. He takes up for me and defends me. He cares for me. And even when I resist, even when I fight Him, even when I throw my fits of refusal, biting and screaming and kicking in disobedience, He holds me tight and gently whispers in my ear, "I love you, no matter what."

At the end of the day He puts me to bed, tells me His story in a way that I can understand it and softly kisses me goodnight. He has compassion on me because he knows how I am made.

This is my son...and this is me. I am raising him but he is teaching me. He is teaching me lessons of unconditional love and devotion. He is teaching me to look with perspective on my life. He is teaching me all about patience, forgiveness and fortitude. Most of all, through the life of a mentally challenged, physically disabled child, I am learning all about the grace of a sovereign, loving, forgiving and gloriously mighty God.

I hope these posts will help those who might be on this same kind of journey to find faith and strength to stay the course. There are many lessons to learn along the way.

2009-10-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

Before the Throne of God Above

Before the throne of God above

I have a strong, a perfect plea:

A great High Priest, whose name is Love,

Who ever lives and pleads for me.

My name is graven on his hands,

My name is written on his heart;

I know that while in heaven he stands

No tongue can bid me thence depart

No tongue can bid me thence depart.

When Satan tempts me to despair,

And tells me of the guilt within,

Upward I look, and see him there

Who made an end of all my sin.

Because a sinless Savior died,

My sinful soul is counted free;

For God, the Just, is satisfied

To look on Him and pardon me

Exposed

2009-10-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

My personal adaptation of Theodore Roosevelt's great qote,

"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of the deeds could have done them better. The true victory is awarded to the man whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who fails miserably, and falls short again and again, because there is no growth without failure; yet even in failure victory is grasped by the man who actually strives to do the deeds, not just talk about them all day; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who experiences great love and who makes great sacrifices; who spends himself entirely in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of God in his life, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who waste their lives knowing neither victory not defeat."

Failure is never final when faith is your foundation.