"Seeing Through the Tears"

Not too long ago, while speaking at a Guidelight Disability Retreat, I was approached by a young mother who was struggling with the severe disability of her son.

I had just spoken about the promise of the resurrection and the hope of a glorified new body from Philippians 3:20-21—a hope that we all look forward to, but perhaps one that those walking through the valley of disability cling to more deeply. It is a resurrection of broken bodies, broken hearts, broken dreams, and a broken world, all restored in the promise and presence of Christ.

When this young mother approached me, I instantly recognized that familiar look on her face. I’ve seen it countless times before, not just on strangers, but even in the mirror. It’s the look of desperation, a mix of hopelessness and exhaustion, all wrapped up in despair. She looked at me and said, ‘I understand what you’re saying, but I’m drowning. I’m at my wits’ end. I want to believe it, but I can’t see it through all the tears.’

Her words reminded me why we preach the gospel at these retreats. The gospel that says, "Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden, and I (Jesus) will give you rest."

Her words also reminded me of the story of another woman—a woman who was desperate, hopeless, exhausted, and at her wits’ end. She wanted to believe, but she couldn’t see Jesus, until she saw the resurrection through her tears.

Don't Give Up Dad

“Don’t give up dad.” 

I remember looking into the mirror and saying those words to myself one dark Father’s Day, years ago. And I was about to give up.

I felt cheated when my first-born son, Jacob, was diagnosed with autism. I cringe to even write those words today, but I felt it. I instantly felt the loss of Jake never being able to play sports, or go on hikes, or go hunting and fishing. Would I ever teach him to dance with a girl, or drive a car, or tie a tie? Of course, in my small world as a new dad, I thought these were all the activities fathers were supposed to do with their sons. More importantly, I thought these were all the activities sons were supposed to be able to do with their fathers. 

Still later, other disabilities would surface—Jake had a severe seizure disorder, he would never speak, he had to wear leg braces, his eyes were crossed, he was incontinent, he suffered from severe sensory disorders, and he would never develop beyond the cognitive ability of a 3-year-old. Suddenly being a father took on a certain sadness and a very real darkness. I wondered if God could even see me though that darkness. 

The story I had written for my life—a story of success, esteem, and honor was seemingly being re-written as a tragedy of suffering, humiliation, and failure. Losses were being stacked up against expectations; and future uncertainties were crushing my dreams of fatherhood.

Looking back, I can see now that God was good to crush them all into fine dust and let the wind blow them away. He had a much better story to write. 

My tiny world as a father was about to grow much bigger than I could have ever imagined, and much deeper than I could have ever dreamed. Like a skilled surgeon, God slowly and mercifully cut away all my superficial expectations of earthly fatherhood and replaced them with images of an eternal heavenly Father.  Those self-encouraging words “Don’t give up dad” Were replaced by His divine promise of, “I will never give you up.”  

Suddenly I saw myself as the disabled child and God as the loving Father who would care for me despite my inabilities to care for myself. He would clean me when I was content to be filthy. He would hold me when I tried to run away. He would love me, even when I could not (or would not) reciprocate that love in return. His promises would speak truth over me when I could not say a word. 

This illustration of fatherhood changed my perspective from “feeling cheated”, to experiencing the very presence of God in a very real and almost tangible way. And whenever I was in danger of straying from the Lord or trusting in my own strength, my son and his disabilities magnified my weakness and drew me back to the strength of Christ and His gospel.  

Truth is, you will never know how strong God can be until you first know how weak you are. In my greatest weakness I couldn’t give up, because in His greater strength He wouldn’t give me up. 

With the encouragement of some goldy men, we wrote a little book telling the story of God’s grace in the life of my son. That little book has been distributed to thousands of hurting families—all over the world! Shortly after the book was written, we partnered with Guidelight ministries (formerly The Elisha Foundation) and for the last 15 years I have been blessed to travel across the nation with Guidelight, encouraging families experiencing disability, with the gospel of Jesus.

Jake is now 31 years old. It’s hard to believe how fast time has gone by. But it’s not hard to believe that God has been a faithful Father through it all. There is so much evidence of His mercy and grace in my life. As Kierkegaard wisely noted, “We live life forwards, but can only understand it backwards.”

So, for the dads out there struggling this Father’s Day; for those who feel cheated and who may be experiencing loss and sadness. For those wondering if their story will ever be anything but a tragedy. For those whose expectations are being overrun by future uncertainties and whose dreams are being crushed by the reality of disability—don’t give up. 

The Father who will never give you up is still writing your story. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Am My Father's Son (Hope for Failing Dads on Father's Day)

 

"He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers."  

(Malachi 4:6)

I was sitting with my dad by his hospital bed watching him sleep, or at least he was trying to sleep. The Parkinson’s disease caused him to shake uncontrollably. Even after two implants in his brain to calm the tremors, he still had little use of his fine motor skills. It was difficult for me to look at him in this state, but still I watched, thinking about his life. Thinking about my life.

His wife called me the day before crying and said she could no longer care for him. She is 86 and has health issues of her own. I arrived at their house and found him in his bed covered in his own urine and feces. I cleaned him up the best I could and called an ambulance.

“Where are we going?” He struggled to protest in his weak, raspy voice. “Don’t take me to the hospital.”

“It’s time dad”, I gently replied.

This battle has been ongoing for the past several years. His wife calls and I come. I clean him, feed him, dress him, transport him to his doctor visits, and I do my best to take care of him. I try to talk him into getting more help and he always refuses. “I don’t need anyone to help me!” He says frustratingly through gritted teeth. This has been the mantra of his life.   

“Ok dad.” I reply as I guide another spoon full of food to his mouth, trying to feed him breakfast before the ambulance arrives. My father has always been the most prideful, stubborn, headstrong man I have ever known.

But now he is rapidly declining. He has lost all ability to walk, feed himself, and clean himself. Even the part-time care workers we have hired cannot keep up with his physical and medical needs. His wife of 48 years sobbed in the background as the EMS workers put him on the gurney and pushed him out of the bedroom. She knows this is the beginning of the end.

As I followed the gurney down the narrow hallway of their home, I was stopped by one of the  photographs on the wall. It’s a picture of my dad and his wife. He is smiling, handsome, healthy, strong and robust. She is strikingly beautiful. He looks to be in his mid to late 40’s. Younger than I am now. 

I wonder when it will be my turn.

My relationship with my dad has always been problematic at best; toxic and traumatic at its worst. My dad left my mom before I was born. I was two-years-old when my mother called my grandparents from St Louis, Missouri and said she could no longer care for my two sisters and me. We went to live with my paternal grandparents in West Virginia. I didn’t see my biological mother again for the next eight years.

My dad remarried and moved into a house just half a block away from my grandparents. The sad irony of our relationship was that I could literally see him sitting on his front porch from my grandparent’s back porch, but he always seemed to be two hundred miles away. I would see him in passing nearly every day. And every day I would wonder why I called a man “Dad” who was never a father to me.  

He was a hard-working man, that’s all I really knew. He worked 12 to 16 hour days, often 6 days a week as an electrician at a large oil and gas refinery. He went to bed early and got up early. His job was his life. 

But every day on his way home from work he would stop by for a brief moment and check on my grandparents. Most times he would never even sit down. He didn’t spend any time at all with his children. He didn’t go on vacations with us. He didn’t come to sporting events. He didn't attend school functions or graduations. He didn't support us financially. He didn’t express any love for us at all, like a father should. My dad was never intentionally mean, unkind, or cruel. He was just absent, distant, and apathetic. 

He never had much to say to me especially, except for his life-long jest in passing when he would look me in the eye, shake his head, and say with a half-smile, “Son, you’ll never make it.” He didn't said it in a malicious way—it was a joke to him. I knew deep down that he didn’t mean it. At least I thought I knew.

That’s the problem with a father’s words. They sink so deep into your soul that they often get lost in translation. Sometimes they dig like a shovel in the dirt. Other times they cut like a knife into the flesh. But they always go into the heart like a mysterious seed, deeply planted. And you never know what will grow there until years later.

It was a joke to him, but it was life-altering to me. I spent my childhood and most of my adult life trying to outrun those words and prove him wrong. I also spent a good portion of my life not knowing or understanding how to love or be loved.

After high school I would marry a wonderful wife who loved me more than I had ever been loved. We would adopt three sons and a daughter who would shower me with love, respect, and affirmation. I vowed to be the husband and father my dad failed to be.

Still, love—unconditional, sacrificial, trustworthy love—remained a foreign concept to me. I didn’t know how to give it or receive it. I was always ready for abandonment. I expected it. That was my default setting. I kept everyone at a safe distance. 

After all, I thought, I am my father’s son. 

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He was to be moved from the hospital to an extended care facility in a couple of days. As I sat by his bed I saw in his eyes a deep sense of regret for the past and a deep fear of the future. I do not want to have that look in my eyes when it is my turn to lay where he lays.

So I gathered up my courage and spoke the words to him that should have been spoken from the beginning. Words of closure for me, and for him.

“It’s time dad.”

“Time for what?” He whispered with his frail, fading voice.

“It’s time for us to talk.”

“OK. I'm not going anywhere.” He responded with a nervous half-smile.

I know he is anxious about this conversation. I know he is fearful of his accountability of the past. He is well aware of his sins and his demons and his neglect of those he should have loved. He should have been a better father, husband, and friend. He should have spent more time with his family and less time at work. He should have been a better man. He should have said more. He could have said less.

But all the “should haves” and “could haves” mean nothing now. And he knows that he has wasted most, if not all of his life. I took a deep breath and prepared to speak. I was rather surprised at my nervousness. 

“Are you ready to meet the Lord?” I ask him. 

He looked at me rather surprised with a certain fear in his eyes, as if I had just pushed him towards the judgment he expected to come. I had talked to my dad many times through the years about redemption, salvation, and the gospel of Jesus. He would always shut down and change the subject, or make some kind of excuse to leave the room. But now all his excuses were gone. He had nowhere else to go. 

“I don’t know.” He whispered as he looked away. 

And then something rather miraculous happened. My dad began to weep, softly at first, then uncontrollably. Like a switch had been flipped. He wept openly for what seemed like a very long time. And for a long time I just sat there and watched him cry. Partially because I didn't know what to say next, but mostly because it was something I had never seen before.

After a while, I continue to speak the only words between my dad and me that really seemed to matter.

“Dad, Jesus lived a perfect life—a life you could never live if you had a thousand lifetimes to live. And the bible says he will give that life to you, place it on your account, so that when you stand before God, he will see Jesus’ perfect life instead of your sinful life. Do you...want that?” I paused, hoping I got it simple enough for him to understand. 

“Yes, I want that..I want to believe that.” He replied through tears.

“Do you know that Jesus died for your sins? He paid for them all, past, present and future, with his sacrificial death. All the punishment meant for you for all the sins you have ever committed or will ever commit, Jesus took on himself, on your behalf.

“Yes. Yes.” His voice grew more resolute.

“Do you believe Jesus died and rose again?”

“Yes! I do”

“Dad, the bible says Jesus ascended into heaven and sits at the right hand of the Father to forever make intercession for us...for you. He’s praying for you right now. Bank all your hope on him!”

“Yes!” His hoarse voice trailed through tears.

I leaned in close and took his hand. “Dad, Jesus says he will never leave you, he will never forsake you. He will be with you as you walk through the darkest valley. He will carry you across the finish line. And when you close your eyes in death, you will open them to life, to see his face. That is something to look forward to, even in the most difficult days to come.”

We talked for a long time about repentance and faith. About forgiveness and grace. We wept together. We prayed. It was the deepest conversation I ever had with my father. 

I baptized my dad in the Veteran’s Hospital, on the 5^th floor, in room 131, bed “B”. It was July 12, 2019. 

Exactly one month after his 81^st birthday, my dad was born again. He passed from death to life. He was adopted as a son. No more regrets, no more disappointment, no guilt in judgment, no fear in death. Just peace, acceptance, confidence and love. A wasted, ruined life—instantly transformed into a life well lived. That is the power of the gospel for failing fathers everywhere.

My dad spent the next 13 months in a nursing home. He suffered greatly, but touched lives immensely. The nurses and caretakers doted over him. “Your dad is so kind, and funny, he always has something sweet to say. He is one of our favorite patients to care for!” They would often tell me. “My dad? Are you sure you have the right man?” I would think to myself and smile.

The Parkinson’s eventually ravaged his body even though his mind stayed sharp to the very end. I was by his bedside the day he took his last breath. It was peaceful and gentle and without struggle—like a long sigh of relief at the end of a very difficult battle. I sat with him for a long while, looking at the weak and withered vessel he had left behind.  

Before I left, I took his hand and told him he was loved. I told him he was a good dad and that he had made such a difference in my life. A difference I would pass on to my children, and they would pass on to theirs. I said it more for my benefit than his of course, but I said it sincerely. 

And I could say it sincerely, because everything that was deficient in my dad’s love, affection, and affirmation was made whole in Jesus' life, death and resurrection. All of his insufficiency to be a good father to his son was made infinitely sufficient in my heavenly Father’s love for me.

Like my dad, and failing fathers everywhere, I rest in the promises of the gospel. The promise of redemption, forgiveness, and grace. And through these promises I can proclaim with confidence and joy,

I am my Father’s son.

Grace as Deep as the Sea

 

I love the ocean. It’s my place of solitude and reflection. It’s where I go to decompress.

As I look out over the sea I think of God’s supremacy and the enormity of his grace. I contemplate the incredible truth that I am able to sit with my feet soaked in even a few small drops of His powerful presence.

Our family has gone to the same beach for summer vacation every year for more than 30-years. My wife came here as a child with her family. Our children, now grown and gone, built sand castles and surfed the waves and chased crabs at night with flashlights. Sunburns, sand, and shells have always been a sign that we are in our place of refuge.

Even my son, Jake, with all his disabilities, loved the beach. He would sit in the shallow pools of the ocean and feel the sand between his fingers for hours. It is here where he learned to walk at age 3. We wondered if he would ever walk by himself. I bought him a little toy lawn mower, stood him up, and placed his hands on the handle. It was just sturdy enough to hold him up. After only a few minutes of guiding him, I let him go. And off he went! He mowed miles and miles of sand that summer, and many summers after, as he wobbled behind that little mower, smiling and squealing and staggering with delight.

It was hectic and noisy and messy and fun.

I miss those days.

There were hard times here also. As Jake got older he became more sensitive to light, heat, noise, and water. He spent most of the day in the condo, so Kim and I would take alternating shifts going to the beach and playing with the other kids. We took turns resting, but I’m not sure we ever really relaxed. For many years, we rarely sat and enjoyed the ocean together. But we still made the most of every family vacation. 

Now I sit on the beach quietly, unhurried, contemplating, watching other families with small children. I sit in the shade of an umbrella and listen to opera music and sip on cold drinks. My 24-hour-a-day parental responsibilities are over.

My walk through the valley of disability is also different. Jake is now a grown man. Twenty-eight years old! The little boy behind the sand mower now has a beard. He lives in his own apartment with 24-hour care. Three shifts a day.

It’s a new season for me. 

But I still have a strange, magnified sense for seeing disability. And if you look long and hard enough, you may see it too. Almost everywhere.

On the crowded beach this morning, there is a young teenage girl sitting in the surf letting the sand run between her fingers. She’s been doing this same repetitive motion all morning as her father stands guard just a few feet away. At first glance she’s just a typical pre-teen girl enjoying the ocean. But my glance is focused, and I perceive the repetitions. I recognize the tactile sensitivity and the emotionless look in her eye. I know the father’s stance and his protective attention to her every move. I understand the weariness in his posture and the accelerated age in his face. Over and over, every day I am on the beach I see them.

And I see more.

I happen to be listening to Andrea Bocelli singing “Nessum Dorma” this afternoon. The only time I listen to opera music is at the beach. There is a certain soothing in the emotional flow of the orchestra, the passionate singing, and the response of the audience--all in harmony with crashing waves and the sea birds in flight. 

Nessum Dorma might be one opera piece you recognize, even if you don’t recognize opera. It’s from the final act of Puccini’s opera Turandot. It is also one of the best known tenor pieces in the world. Bocelli is singing it live in Central Park, and it might be beneficial at this time in reading that you listen to this piece of music. Even if the opera is not your thing, it might help you with the story that follows. 

Andrea Bocelli 

To my right, standing in the water, is a father scolding his son. I see the boy. His face shows the obvious signs of a syndrome. Sometimes disability is invisible. Sometimes it marks us cruelly and hard.

The father is bent over inches from his son’s contorted face. He’s holding a small fishing net, the kind you would buy at discount surf shop to catch minnows. The stick attached to the net has been severely bent, much like the boy’s face and neck and body. I take one of my earbuds out to hear the conversation.

“Why did you break it!” The father angrily barks at his son.

The child does not respond.

“Answer me! Why did you break it! I just bought it for you this morning. How could you tear it up so fast? Why are you so destructive?! You break everything!"

His questions are met only with silence and blank stares.

The father angrily tosses the broken net to the shore and walks away from his son to face the ocean. The boy stands alone. The dad stands alone too. His face is turned away as he stares out over the sea.

I put the opera back in my ear. I don’t need to hear any more of the father’s words. I’ve heard them all before.

I’ve said them all before.

Andrea Bocelli sings, the orchestra plays, the waves crash, and the wind blows the father’s harsh words away. 

“Nessum Dorma”. It means, “None shall sleep.” A fitting piece for any parent walking with a child through the valley of disability.

I want to scold the dad with his back to the son, “You can replace the net—you can replace a thousand nets!”

But I know, deep inside, this has nothing to do with a broken net and everything to do with a broken life, a broken dream, a broken son, and a broken heart. I want to walk out into the ocean and put my arm around the dad and whisper in his ear, “Don’t give up. Your son is indispensable! He is so important! This season of your life is so significant. Take it in! Pay attention to the details! God is at work! I see you! I've been you!"

Instead I sit in silence, listening to the opera, watching the waves, and pretending not to stare. Like we all do when we see disability up close. But God will not let me turn away. “My power is made perfect in weakness.” He whispers over the waves.

Just then, as Bocelli hits his famous high note, the broken little boy walks up behind his exasperated father and softly takes him by his hand. They stand together silently in the sea. 

Only a God called "Father" could write this masterpiece. The boy wraps his arm around the man's waste as if to say, "I'm sorry". The weary dad puts his hand on his son’s head and pulls him close to his side as if to say, "I love you no matter what". No words are needed. A prodigal comes home. They turn together and walk back towards the shore.

The crowd at Central Park roars with applause as Bocelli bows to accept their praise. 

But today the famous Tenor is upstaged by a broken little boy on a beach with his dad. They are eclipsed in the Shadow of the Almighty, whose power is truly made perfect in weakness, and whose grace is as deep as the sea.

  

The Story of Hope

Nine years ago today we received our daughter, Hope. After three domestic adoptions, it was this China adoption that forever forged the picture of God's redemption in our hearts and minds. I cannot read the gospel without thinking of this moment and I cannot watch this video without thinking of the gospel. That is what adoption is all about--a picture that points us to the greatness of God in the gospel of Jesus.

Happy "gotcha day" Hope.  May you someday show this video to your children and tell them the "story of hope".

Twenty-Two Years

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow.

For most parents raising typically developing children, the passing years are anticipated to bring more and more joy. There are seasons to look forward to—sporting events and spring prom and driver’s education and graduation and college and career and marriage and children and grandchildren. The natural progressions of life within the family unit are hopeful jewels in the crown of parenthood.

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow, and there have been no championship games or prom dances. He didn’t walk across a stage at his high school graduation. He will not drive a car or go to college. He will never have a job, a wife, or children. The natural progressions of my son’s life get less hopeful with each passing year. The milestones are gut wrenching and the future is filled with painful questions: Where will he live out his life? Who will care for him when we’re gone? What if he is mistreated or neglected? When will the side affects of a lifetime of harsh medications and debilitating disabilities take their toll on his body, organs and mind? Will he suffer? Will he know we loved him to the end?

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow and he is not getting better, he is getting worse. It’s not getting easier; it’s getting harder. He is getting older. I am getting older. His skin is covered with open sores from years of self-abuse and unknown skin ailments. His hair is all but gone, his teeth are decaying and slowly falling out, his legs are turning inward so badly that he practically walks on his ankles. Physical disabilities, autism, PDD/NOS, and a plethora of sensitivity issues have ravaged his once bubbly personality leaving him frustrated and distressed. The anxiety is greater than it has ever been—for him and for me. As I look over the hundreds of childhood pictures spanning two decades, my heart swells and then gradually sinks. The change is dramatic and heartbreaking. His remaining life will likely be short and full of sorrow.

“Man who is born of a woman is few of days and full of trouble.” (Job 14:1)

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow, and his mom and I will grieve—deeply, silently, secretly, and personally. But we will not grieve in the same way as those who have no hope. (I Thessalonians 4:13) For we consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to him. (Romans 8:18) We will cry with an inward groan as we wait eagerly for the redemption of our son’s body. (Romans 8:23) We cannot see how this will work out. Then again, hope that is seen is not really hope. But if we hope for what we cannot see, we will anticipate it with patience and confidence. And the Spirit will help in all our weaknesses. (Romans 8:24-26)

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow, and tomorrow we will rejoice that he was fearfully and wonderfully made, knit together in his mother’s womb, created in the Imago Dei. (Psalm 139:14) We will sing “happy birthday” and blow out candles. We will shower him with gifts and surround him with love. We will take photographs and selfies and we will allow the world to see just a snippet of our life. We will laugh and eat cake as if disability did not exist. And people will say, “What a happy boy! What a delightful day! The Lord is faithful! Jesus is enough! God is good!”

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow, and as he preaches to us a silent message of tangible grace, we will feel the warmth in our souls that this is not the end. We are not yet home. Our citizenship is in heaven and we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform Jacob's lowly body so that it will be like his glorious body. (Philippians 3:20-21)

My son turns twenty-two tomorrow, and twenty-two years is like a day to the Lord. But even if that day is like a thousand years to us—we will spend each moment knowing God is faithful to the very end.

Indispensable

God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. As it is, there are many parts, yet one body. The parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and on those parts of the body that we think less honorable we bestow the greater honor. (1 Corinthians 12:18-23)

Sitting with my son through an entire church service is no easy task. As a matter of statistical fact, most parents of special needs children choose to not attend church (or they attend sparingly) because of the stress that accompanies potential, attention-grabbing disturbances caused by their child’s disability.

It’s easier to stay home and stay out of the congregational eye—the eye that seemingly stares and judges and blinks and winks. 

“Yet the eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”

Indispensable: Not subject to being set aside or neglected; absolutely necessary; essential. (Merriam Webster)

My son is a 20-year-old autistic man with the cognitive mentality of a 2-year-old child, yet he is indispensable to the congregation of Redemption Church. He cannot speak (although he can make plenty of noise) yet he is indispensable to the worship service. He constantly kicks the chair of the person in front of him, he claps during the quiet times and cannot sit still for five minutes, much less the length of a sermon. Yet he is indispensable to the church—indispensable to the Body of Christ.

How can the least become essential and the weaker become indispensable in God’s seemingly backwards, upside down and inside out church body? With Jesus as the head, let me show you a picture of God’s great grace in the Body of Christ—His Church.

It’s Sunday morning and Jake is sitting in the very back row of the sanctuary. We are not placed in the back because we are unimportant; we choose the back mostly for strategic reasons. A hasty exit is sometimes required. Four seats are reserved for our family. This is just one of the ways our church ministers to us.

My wife sits on one side of Jake and I sit on the other. We take turns stroking his arms and his back to keep him calm enough to sit through an entire worship service. His mother runs her fingers through his thinning auburn hair. It has always been Jake’s sedative.

But this service is different. The pastor has just preached one of his final messages from an entire sermon series in the book of Romans and has come to a key verse that obviously catches Jake’s attention. The verse is Romans 16:16 “Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the churches of Christ greet you.”

Jake perks up and listens as the pastor begins to apply the text, asking the congregation, “Why don’t we do that anymore? Why don’t we show affection in the church? Why don’t we greet each other with hugs and kisses? Why are we afraid of touch?”

Jake nods in approval of the pastor’s plea and gives an affirming grunt—his unmistakable, “Amen!”

I give my wife that silent look. She knows what it means. We have learned to speak clearly without words over the years—across rooms, through crowds, over noise, and in church. It’s a head slightly tilted forward, wide-eyed, pursed lip look.  A nervous mix of, “Isn’t that cute” and “Batten down the hatches, something is about to happen!”

The pastor continues as he concludes his sermon. “We’re going to try something new today. (Just what every good church member wants to hear) After The Lord’s Supper, turn to the person next to you and give him or her a hug. And show some affection!”

You could feel the uncomfortable anticipation creep across the room as people began to think, “Is he serious? We have to touch each other, beyond a casual handshake?” I imagined what the visitors were thinking that morning; some after sneaking quietly into the room, now were exposed to their worst fear—being ousted from their anonymity and physically embraced by complete strangers.

People were looking around the room, checking out their neighbors, their prospective huggers, and the nearest exits.

I honestly remember thinking to myself, “If some guy tries to kiss me, I’m going to put him on the ground.” My heart began to drift—like hearts do, when they are afraid.

But the man-child moved to the edge of his seat and leaned in to the pastor’s words.

As the final prayer was prayed, the “amen” was sounded and the congregation dismissed, people began to mill uncomfortably towards each other. Some even tried to head for the door and avoid the offending invasion of their personal comfort zones.

The pastor gently prodded, “Come on now, find someone to hug before you leave!”

Two or three married couples at the front of the church, closest to the pastor, did a lean in shoulder bump with a patronizing pat on the back. Then a few more followed suite, as most of the congregation simply did not know how to respond to the awkward invitation and were content to go through the motions to please the pastor.

And that’s when it happened.

That’s when the broken little toe led the foot, and the foot led the leg, and the leg led the body, and the weaker member became indispensable.

Jake sprung from his seat and bolted into the isle before we could catch him. He ran straight over to an older gentleman (who was trying to exit the building unnoticed and presumably untouched) and nearly knocked him off his feet with a bear hug. It wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t short lived. Jake held onto the man until I could get through the crowd of people to pull him off. The stern look on the man’s face told me this was an uninvited intrusion into his wide, impermeable bubble.

But just as I began to unwrap Jake’s grip from the victim’s shoulders and apologize for the inconvenience, I noticed wetness in the older man’s eyes. Jake held tight and the man resigned his objection; his body went somewhat limp as sternness melted to a smile and unsure hands reciprocated the embrace.

My son finally released the man and I thought all was well and complete, but before I could redirect Jake back to his seat or to an exit door, he broke loose again. This time instead of restraining him, I let him go—because sometimes you have to set people free to experience the greatest freedom yourself.

He ran to hug another, and another, and yet another. He was laughing and jumping and hugging and loving. It was sloppy and loud and rough and painful. And the entire body was watching and learning and discovering what “indispensable” really meant.

Soon others joined in and the hugs spread like sparks jumping from a small, intense fire. As the wind of the Spirit blew where it pleased, the sparks turned to flames and raged through the church. But the only thing that burned up that day was the long-standing boundaries around comfort zones of personal pride and inward self-esteem.

People were laughing and talking and whooping and hugging—real hugs—feet off the ground, cheek to cheek, steal your breath hugs. And unbeknownst to most of the congregation, Jake was in the middle of it all, like an imprisoned apostle set free; like a preacher without a voice, called by God to “go and make disciples”.

That Sunday started something new for Jake, and something new for the local body of Christ at Redemption Church—a sort of mini revival set afire by the unsuspecting, silent ember of one indispensable blazing heart.

Now every Sunday he sits, waiting for the end of the service. Waiting for the Lord’s Supper, the closing benediction and the final “Amen”. Not so he can get home and watch Sunday afternoon football or fix Sunday dinner or take a Sunday nap.  Those things are the farthest from his simple mind.

He lives to apply the meaning of the message with complete lack of inhibition for his unbridled, bubble busting, in your face, knock you to the ground, God honoring, Jesus exalting, Spirit saturated —joy!

Sometimes it’s loud and painful. Sometimes he pokes an eye, or lands a knee, or leaves a slobbered wet spot on someone’s clean Sunday best. Sometimes we have to restrain his ambition just a bit for the protection of the elderly and the petite. Sometimes we wince when a visitor gets picked for the embrace. It's usually awkward and it’s almost always uncomfortable.

But every Sunday after church, the real worship begins in the heart of obscurity.  And an autistic, non-verbal, disabled, man-child shines like a white hot spotlight of God’s grace for the motley, multifaceted church body to see and understand—

“God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as He chose. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem weaker are indispensable, and on those parts of the body that we think less honorable we bestow the greater honor.”