The Return of the King May 31, 2008

In the United States nearly 60% of all children under the age of five who are murdered are killed by a parent. Nearly four children each day die as a result of abuse or neglect. 

But the King is coming.

An estimated three million American children are victims of sexual abuse.  Roughly one in four women have been sexually assaulted at some point in their lives.  

But the King is coming.

8.4 million of the world’s children are forced to work, fight, or perform illicit activities against their will.  Almost 16,000 children die each day from hunger related causes worldwide.

But the King is coming.

He’s coming for the student who is bullied, rejected, and marginalized.  He’s coming for the oppressed alien worker paid an illegal unfair wage.  He’s coming for the disabled veteran sleeping on the street, his life used up for the people who ignore him. He’s coming for the forgotten senior citizen who has to choose between buying food and heating her apartment.

The King is coming.  And like good King Richard when the good King comes He will bring the cruel autocrat to Justice and restore our freedom.

The King is coming.  And like good King Aragon when the good King comes He will turn the tide of the Battle and restore our hope.

The King is coming.  And like good King Arthur when the good King comes He will fight for Beauty and restore our faith. 

The King is coming.

I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With Justice he judges and makes war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. The armies of heaven were following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. “He will rule them with an iron scepter.”  He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:

       KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS. (Revelation 19:11-16)

Words…. May 25, 2008

Growing up I lived in a family of playground bullies…and laughter came at the expense of someone less capable of defending herself against the onslaught of belittling words and sarcasm-that someone was me!

 I felt angry and helpless, yet if I complained it resulted in a round merciless chastising- “Can’t you take a joke? Lighten up or what’s your problem?

 

I grew up learning that words can be a powerful-both as weapons and as shields. And so, I too learned to sharpen my skills in wielding them. Growing up as I did with neglect and abuse, I spent much of my childhood afraid, but later as a teenager I found that the skillful use of words made me formidable and a less desirable mark. I became sharp-tongued and could take someone apart verbally with razor-like accuracy. Later, even as a Christian I learned to do it under the pretext of humor and wit. I learned how to use my “talent” to protect myself and defend others who were being victimized.

 

When the Lord began to heal my broken, wounded heart He also began to reveal to me that my heart, which caused me to speak with sarcasm, needed to be transformed. It took time for me to realize that even if the hurtful things I wanted to say were true or even if they were said in jest and joking, I knew that it was out of the overflow of a wounded and broken heart that my mouth spoke. 

 

Jesus also showed me that my words hold the power of life and death, (Eph.4:29, James 3:5-6) and that the choices I make about what to say, or what not to say, significantly affect other people.

 

Over the years, with the help of the Holy Spirit, I have dropped my own defenses, choosing to seek transparency and give up my “right” to speak in certain ways. I made a choice to encourage people with my words whenever I could. Choosing to speak words that build up and edify rather than humorously tear down hasn’t been an easy road. Whether my words sound humorous or hateful, I don’t want to speak words that add pain to another’s heart.

 

Matthew 12:34, 36-37 says this: It’s your heart, not the dictionary, that gives meaning to your words…Let me tell you something: every one of these careless words is going to come back to haunt you. There will be a time of reckoning. Words are powerful; take them seriously. Words can be your salvation. Words can also be your damnation.”

 

I read just the other day these words in a book I’m reading: “Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not against irony or humor. It can give life depth and reveal humor in our often broken, topsy-turvy circumstances. God surely knows we need and want to laugh. But, now, more than ever, we need discernment to use irony appropriately. We cannot live our lives like a television sitcom, where practically all dialogue consists of cynical remarks tossed back and forth between characters who seem unfazed by the perpetual skirmishes of wit. In real life, sarcasm can hurt people. In real life, too many people use sarcasm to either wound others or defend themselves. In real life, too many people who don’t want to be hurt or bothered with intimacy hide behind mockery, scorn and derisive joking.”

 

I saw myself in these words many years ago…and it hurts me to know that I wounded so many people with my words…..while I don’t have to toss out irony or humor or joking altogether, I do need to carefully consider my words. While it is a gift to make people laugh, I must discern whether my words will cut or whether they will build up.

Sadly, the truth is all too often (years ago and sadly even now from time to time) I used my “funny” comments to shame others, exposing their weaknesses and/or passions in order to mock them. I didn’t always set out to do this with my sarcastic comments, but my journey of discernment has been to recognize that I do bear some responsibility for the way my words affect others.

With my words I am either encouraging another to become more beautiful or more broken….am I helping or hurting?

 

It has been a journey in discovering the fact that my words have power and how their influence can be wielded for good or evil. Today I choose, not always successfully because I have still wounded others with my sarcasm, wit, joking, and gossip, but with the help of the Holy Spirit I desire to speak words of life!

 

 I will end with something I read once about the word sarcasm. “English speakers derived the word sarcasm from the Greek terms sarkasmos and sarkazein, which mean to rend. It’s no mistake that people refer to sarcastic comments as “cutting remarks”. The very origin of the word implies that cynical humor intends to rip its target apart.

Webster’s dictionary uses words such as harsh, sharp, bitter and sardonic to define sarcasm and cynicism. It is very illuminating that the word sardonic alludes to a plant native to the Mediterranean island Sardinia which, when eaten, supposedly produces convulsive laughter ending in death….without discernment, though lethal humor may not be our design, cutting and cynical jokes can spread the stench of death into our minds and relationships and destroy the reputations of others.”

 

Anger Continued…. May 24, 2008

 

For me anger and sadness shared the same emotional limelight for years. It has been said that our feelings cannot be separated into neat, tidy bundles like our dark and light clothes on washday. Rather they often tumble together, leaving us feeling both crazy and mixed up.

 

For many years that’s how I felt about anger. I was angry with my aunt because she didn’t protect me from abuse, yet at the same time I felt pity for her because she was often the victim of rage and beatings as she was verbally and physically abused by my uncle too. And again years later I was saddened when I was getting counseling and receiving God’s healing and finding freedom, and she was still carrying around all her wounds and pain.

 

So often with adult children of dysfunctional families anger is the only emotion they feel, while for others it is the one “dangerous” emotion they never allow themselves to feel.

 

So when is anger appropriate?

 

Did you know that anger is not a sin? More importantly, do you believe it?

 

Sandra Wilson in her book, Released from Shame, says that hundreds of times in Scripture God is described as experiencing and expressing anger. God responds with anger at injustice and victimization, at disobedience to Him and idolatry, among other sinful attitudes and acts. And so when we witness the effects of injustice, disobedience to God and/or idolatry, anger is an appropriate response.

If you helplessly witnessed a child being beaten or raped, would you feel angry? Of course you would because it is such a blatant act of injustice and victimization.

What about if you saw a father consistently abuse his children verbally and emotionally in such a way that the child became very discouraged and wounded. I suspect this would anger you too.

Now let’s take this a step closer to home. I believe that anger is appropriate, not only when we witness the effects of injustice and abuse but also when we “experience” those effects ourselves.

Why is it not appropriate for you to feel anger towards the perpetrator who physically, sexually or verbally abused you as a child?

In effect you had to stand by and watch a child being victimized, powerless to stop it…..and that child was you.

Does it make the acts perpetrated against you any less unjust because they happened to you instead of another child?

 

Let’s take a “time out” right now and I invite you consider re-examining the scene of your abuse from God’s perspective. God is angry about the abuse you endured as a child.

God knows it’s not your fault no matter what your abuser may have told you.

Maybe you’ve never looked at your abuse this way, perhaps you need to find a trusted friend or counselor who can provide support and comfort as you acknowledge and experience the anger, sadness or other feelings that might persist

With this friend or counselor invite the Lord into the scenes and ask Him to speak to you, to show you where He was in this scene and how He felt. Give yourself permission to talk, cry, shout, or write them out if it may help more…. remembering that you will not feel these intense emotions forever. Invite the Holy Spirit to heal the wounds, the broken pieces of your heart and injustices that you experienced as a child. I believe it is important to go back into the depths of those painful places, inviting Jesus into those painful places and offer to Him your fragmented heart where the battle took place, and He can and will begin to heal your broken heart and set you free.

Jesus is not limited by space or time and much freedom comes when we are able to invite Him into those wounded areas of our hearts knowing that He was right there with us and is waiting to heal and bring wholeness to our fragmented hearts.

 

 

So back to the question of when is anger appropriate? It is good to remember that God’s anger is always justified and appropriate, and He never responds to it with sin. But if we are honest we can’t always say the same for our anger. The difficult thing for us is to handle our anger appropriately.

As author Sandra Wilson points out that although God does not equate our anger with sin, He does issue a strong warning because anger is such a powerful emotion. (Ephesians 4:26- In your anger do not sin)

Anger ceases being appropriate and becomes sinful when it becomes a habitual attitude rather than the appropriate emotional response to injustice and the other situations mentioned earlier.

 

The Train May 23, 2008

We left Alabama for Michigan, but my dad never stopped looking for us.  He hired a private investigator to find us.  We moved a lot to throw my dad off our trail.  Sometimes we changed schools in the middle of a school year.  In sixth grade I changed schools in the middle of a school year twice.

When Hansel and Gretel were kidnapped by an evil witch, they secretly left a trail of bread crumbs so that their parents could find them.  Maybe they knew, or maybe they didn’t, that birds were coming along behind them and eating their bread crumbs as fast as they were throwing them down.  It must have made them feel better to drop those bread crumbs either way.

I left my own secret messages for my dad.  I’d write my name in big letters in the dirt by my house.  I knew the wind and rain would just come and wash the letters away, but I traced them over and over just the same.  Sometimes I’d find a big tree and climb as high as I could until the branches looked too thin and weak for me to climb any higher.  I’d look out from the tree and think about my dad.  I knew he was out there looking for me and I knew he wanted me back.

One day he almost got me.  We were driving to our friend’s house and he was there.  He had driven up from Alabama.  His car was parked in our friend’s driveway and he was at the front door, knocking.  When my mom saw that it was him, she drove away fast.  My dad heard our tires squeal and looked up.  He got into his car and chased us.  Mom led him out into the country, down a dirt road.  We kids were bouncing all over the back seat and looking out the window at my dad’s car, gaining on us, with a big cloud of dust billowing behind it.  We heard the whistle of a train and felt out tires skip and rumble as they rolled over some tracks.  After that we couldn’t see dad’s car anymore because a train was in the way.

Once I asked my mom about what had happened between my dad and her.  “Mom, why did you and Dad get divorced?” I asked.  Mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, sadly, “Lisa, your dad just never liked kids very much, especially you.  There was always just something about you that your dad couldn’t stand.”  I didn’t say anything, but I knew she was lying.  I knew my dad was out there looking for me.  I could feel deep down, all the way down to my toenails, that he loved me.  Nothing my mom could do or say could ever make me stop believing that.

Missing my dad is a lot like missing God.  I know God is out there, and I know He Loves me.  I can talk to Him, but I can’t feel Him holding me or see Him face to face.  God sends me presents so I won’t forget Him.  He sends big, medium, and little secret messages, saying here I am, are you still looking for Me?  No matter where I go, no matter what I do, God is always seeking me.  I know that if I turned my back on God and ran away from Him, He would come and find me.  He wouldn’t quit working until He’d done everything He could do to bring me back to be with Him again.  Not even a train could stop God.  And nothing anyone can do or say could ever make me stop believing that.

Anger May 18, 2008

I thought I would write some posts about anger….anger is a common and normal residual effect of sexual abuse. Often as victims begin healing they experience anger….actually anger was too mild a word for me when I began to face my abuse and heal- what I felt was more like bitterness, rage, hatred and even fury. But its important to understand that for victims recovering, feeling these emotions are normal and healthy. Why, because too often victims deny their anger, repress it or often underestimate its strength, So I will spend some time discussing anger and I hope if you are reading along that you will jump in with your thoughts and experiences.

I have found that in society males and females are taught to handle anger differently. These may be changing but traditionally boys have been encouraged to express anger and aggression. Encouraged to turn their sadness into aggression, turn their fear into anger. If in pain-ignore it and become aggressive.

 Whereas little girls have been given different messages tradionally. Lets say a little girl is angry enough to hit her friend, yet her parents most often chide her for her aggression and the girl is encouraged to dissolve into her parents arms and cry. Therefore she learns to deny her feelings of anger and aggression and turn them into expressions of fear and sadness.

These patterns are often carried into adulthood and so women often have a difficult time both experiencing and expressing anger.

There are other reasons that victims avoid their own anger. Perhaps they fear its depth and power, or maybe its helplessness, desire to keep the peace, personal denial or maybe even family denial.

Often anger is mishandled. There are a myriad of defense mechanisms that exist to help a person remain in denial. The following suggestions/reasons are from author John P. Splinter and he states:

Repression-force it from all conscious thought

Suppression- just don’t think about it

Underrateing-Pretend its not significant now that you’re an adult

Rationalization- explain it all away

Theologize-tell yourself that God will make it all go away so you don’t have to deal with it. Or tell yourself that being angry is unchristian

Flight-run away from everything. Perhaps even develop some phobias in self-defence.

I’ll leave off her for now and later discuss some symptoms of mishandled anger.

It’s all up to ME! May 17, 2008

I just spent two days praying with two dear friends.  Going away for two days to pray would not have sounded fun even a year or two ago.  Praying used to seem like hard work.  Instead it was amazing and beautiful and peaceful and hilarious and deeply satisfying.  God was there waiting for us and He is an excellent host!  I think He enjoyed our time as much as we did.  It was better than I had hoped for.

Do you ever read a passage of Scripture and wonder where it had been your whole life?  Do you think God sneaks new stuff in?  Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I don’t remember ever reading this before:

The Lord GOD has given Me the tongue of disciples,
         That I may know how to sustain the weary one with a word 
         He awakens Me morning by morning,
         He awakens My ear to listen as a disciple. 

I spent a lot of time listening these last two days.  There was one particular moment of clarity I had on long and beautiful solitary hike.  In my family of origin crisis was par for the course.  We were indoctrinated in a lifestyle that kept us perpetually in survival mode.  As soon as I was able I left that lifestyle as far behind as I possibly could by always trying to work hard and do the right thing and take care of the people around me.

But now I’m beginning to think I ended up back where I started.  Over the years I keep finding myself trying to do the hardest things I can possibly do.  I push myself to the limit.  Then when the stress level is familiarly high and the anxiety starts to get out of control and the panic sets in I think to myself, ‘ah yes, I knew it was true, it’s All up to Me!’

So, yeah… sinisterly arrogant.  I am not yet where I want to be.  But I’m glad I saw it.  That’s a start.  There’s hope for me yet.

The Fragrance of Hope May 13, 2008

When I was a teenager we moved to a house that was dark, old, run down and depressing.  It was infested with mice and bugs and there was no place for me to sleep.  The problems I was having at school paled in comparison to the unspeakable problems I was having at home.  It took every bit of faith and courage I could muster to make it through each day.  But it was around that time the that lilacs began to bloom.  There were several large lilac bushes in the yard and as the blossoms opened a message of hope drifted out with their perfume.  The message whispered deep within me, ‘hold on Lisa, things will get better.’ 

Simone Weil wrote, Only two things can pierce the human heart.  One is beauty.  The other is affliction.  In my life those two piercings often follow one so closely behind the other that they blur together in remembrance.  Things did get better.  Now many years later as the lilacs once again spread their petals and once again overwhelm me with the fragrance of hope I once again thank God for His love and faithfulness to messed up girls like me. 

The Scorpion May 8, 2008

Once there was a scorpion who wanted to cross a river.  He asked a fox to give him a ride on his back and the fox agreed.  When the fox had swum halfway across, the scorpion stung him.  The fox asked, “Why did you do that?  Now I’ll never make it to the other side.  Now we’ll both drown!”  The scorpion answered, “I had to do it.  I’m a scorpion.  It’s my nature.”

I feel like that scorpion.  My greatest enemy is my own nature.  I was abused as a child.  My parents before me were abused as children.  Their parents before them were abused as children.  I am just a link in a long twisted chain.  How far back the chain reaches, only God knows.  I am not a perfect parent.  I have made mistakes, mistakes which have hurt my girls.  But when I look at it honestly, the truth is, I do not abuse my children.  I am just a link in a chain, but at least I am the last link.

Other people don’t get it.  I’ve heard them talk about child abuse.  It just doesn’t make sense, they say.  How can someone who was abused as a child and knows how wrong it is grow up to abuse their own children?  I think those people are asking the wrong question.  The real question is, how can they not?   How can people who never learned to love themselves find the power to love their children?

Loving my children is unnatural.  It’s like struggling against the weight of history.  It’s like fighting against my destiny.  I am dangling at the bottom of a chain with an empty void hanging under my feet.  The links above me are angry.  Misery loves company.  What makes you think, they seem to say, what makes you think you’re so much better than we were?  It’s a reasonable question.  Am I better than they were?  No.  Am I stronger than they were?  Not at all.  Do I have more willpower, more determination?  In fact, I have decidedly less.  And yet here I am, with a heart full of love for my children.  I love them enough to die for them.  I love them enough to make tough decisions that they don’t always like.  I love them enough to learn how to love myself.

Maybe that’s the secret.  Maybe when I reach out and grab God’s Grace with both hands – when I smear it all over myself and go back for seconds – that’s when I get it.  I get the transforming power that’s made perfect in weakness.  You see, I can’t accept God’s Love without admitting that I am lovable.  When I accept His Love, I have the power to choose my own destiny.  When I accept His Love, I am set free.

 

Running May 5, 2008

I’ve been under a LOT of stress lately.  Like most child abuse survivors, I also deal with many traumatic after-effects.  The stress has really built up over the last couple of days and I keep turning to God and complaining.  ’Lord, I’m SO uptight I don’t know what to do.  What should I DO?  Any ideas?’  Now that’s just what I call being open and if I think of something after I ask such questions I usually give the thing I thought of a try.  It’s only fair.  In case you are wondering, the thing I thought of was, ‘you really ought to go running’.  

Just so you know, I don’t like running.  I have kind of a love/hate relationship with it.  I suppose if I kept it up enough to really acclimate to it I would enjoy it, but I am a stop-and-start breed of runner.  I seem to run just often enough so that it feels like I shouldn’t be running when I am and feels like I should be running when I’m not.  So the idea of ’starting’ running again didn’t really go over too well with me.  Regardless, I gave it a try and I’m glad I did.  Anyone struggling with post traumatic stress, traumatic stress, or just the stress of life in general can benefit greatly from exercise.  I know and I have.

When a person experiences severe trauma, such as fearing for their life, over a long period of time their body is permanently changed and produces a baseline level of stress hormones that is well above normal.  This high level of chemicals can create chaos in one’s body and is not beneficial for anything except super strength when fighting for or running for your life.  But when it’s not used up in that way it needs to be burned off through strenuous exercise.  Unfortunately, when I feel stressed, exercise is the last thing I’d like to do.  But this afternoon I tried it anyway, and as usual I feel a lot better now.

I am not a serious runner.  A mile and a half to two miles seems just about the right distance for me and I go very slowly.  For a while I tried to run pi miles but I gave it up because it was irrational (bu-dum-bum).  Once (and only once) I ran a race.  It was a couple of years ago.  My town offered a brand new five mile race.  Up to that point I had never run more than two miles, but I thought I’d like to try it.  I figured five miles is like going two miles (which I already knew I could do) and going two miles again (if I could do it once it seemed like I could do it twice) and then going a little more.  How hard could that be?  So I signed up.  

When I showed up at the starting line I wondered if I had made a mistake.  There were some real serious runners there.  One guy said he ran the three and a half miles from his house to the park as a warm-up.  These people  actually seemed stressed out about how they were going to perform.  It kinda made me happy because I knew my performance would help them feel better about theirs.  Anyway, I faked a couple of stretches by discreetly copying the real runners and waited for the starting pistol to fire.  When it did I set off and before long I was behind the pack in a cloud of dust.  After a while it got where I couldn’t see anyone ahead of me, but once in a while I saw people quit.  That made me feel good about myself.  The way I count it, I BEAT those guys!  After two or three miles a police car pulled alongside me.  The officer rolled down the window and hollered something out.  I didn’t want to break my stride so I yelled back, ‘WHUA?’  He repeated himself, but I still didn’t hear him.  So he stopped the cruiser and leaned halfway out the window and yelled out at the top of his voice ‘ARE – YOU – OKAY???’  Let me tell you, THAT was embarassing!  I told him I was fine thank you very much and kept on running with my head held high (but my face even redder if that was possible!)

The coolest thing happened when I finished.  I got up to the finish line and saw this enormous sign keeping the time.  I won’t tell you what my time was because some real runners might be reading this and I don’t want you to choke or spit soda on your keyboard.  But here’s the thing.  There was a group of random wonderful people I had never met sitting on some bleachers waiting for …  well … ME!  They were cheering!  ’Good Job!’  ’Congratulations!’  ’You MADE it!!’  I didn’t understand where they had come from or why they were there, but I felt so thankful for their kindness!   I didn’t know them, there wasn’t a single familiar face, but they waited, they cheered and (I admit it), I cried with joy!

Experiences like that remind me that I belong to something.  That we’re all connected somehow.  If it’s true in running, it’s true in humanity and it’s especially true in the spiritual universe.  I believe we ALL have a cheering section.  We may not know who they are, but I believe they are out there waiting for us and cheering us on.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. (Hebrews 12:1-3 NIV)

If you’re struggling today, don’t lose heart!  Run your race with your head held high.  Joy is just ahead of you.  I promise!

Mother’s Day May 2, 2008

I wrote this in 1993 during my intense period of counseling. One morning while sitting outside on my deck writing in my journal, I was thinking about my mom. It was shortly after Mother’s Day and I knew that God was speaking to me as this flowed from my pen.

A Letter of Love- A Bouquet of Flowers

As I sit here this morning, enjoying the quiet and solitude, my mind begins to drift and think of what you were like mom.

I’ve been a mother now almost 15 years. I am the same age now, as you were when you breathed your last here on this earth.

I’ve often wondered if you held me like I held my girls when they were babies. Did you count each finger and toe, did you hold me close to your bosom, and did your love fill the room as you cradled your little one?

Did your heart just want to burst with joy? Did your eyes fill up with tears as you held this tiny bundle of life?

When you chose my name did you dream dreams, did you have hopes, and did you long to watch your child grow, to see her blossom?

Did you ever weep for her, hoping that life would be kind and gentle, because you knew that tiny rose buds need tender nurturing and care? Did your tears water her because each teardrop was filled with a mother’s love?

And when the day came and you breathed your last, were your final thoughts of your children that you were leaving behind?

Did you pray and ask God to watch over them- to water them with His love and tears?

 

Are you there now with Jesus? Does He walk with you through the fields of flowers? And as you look upon these flowers, do you think of your children? Perhaps one is a daisy, another a marigold, or perhaps a lily.

Do you talk with Jesus; do you rest your head upon His shoulder? Does He tell you how much He loves you, and that He loves all His children?

 

Do you know mom how much I miss you? How I wish I could have known you? As a child my heart ached for you to hold me, to fix my cuts and soothe my hurts.

I wanted so much to put my head on your shoulder, to hear your voice, your laughter, and your tears. To have known the look of a mothers love, telling me all I needed to know.

How I would have loved to walk with you as a little girl through fields of flowers, hand in hand, you sharing your wisdom and thoughts with me, enjoying nature together. And as I looked upon a stream flowing it would remind me of your love. Yes as a child I would dreams those dreams, I’d wish upon the stars.

 

But eventually I quit dreaming. At night I would cry, so many nights I would whisper your name. So many nights of emptiness and silence because you were not there and never would be.

Did you hear me call your name? Did you see my tears? Did you know how I ached for you, soaking my pillow with your tears?

 

Did you know that Jesus collected all those tears in a bottle and as He held each one He would pray my name?

Then one day when He decided it was time, He used all those tears to water a garden, my very own garden, “the garden of my soul“. It had always been hidden by weeds, the tiny flower buds hidden underneath.

But as Jesus used those tears, the tiny buds began to open and eventually crowded out the weeds. And Jesus grew a garden of flowers, beautiful colors and fragrances, all from my tears. Jesus spoke life to those tiny flower buds and under His care they grew.

I don’t know if you can see this mom, if Jesus will pass this on to you. But I’m okay now mom. I am in the hands of the Master Gardener.

 

I still sometimes cry for you, wishing you could see the three most beautiful flowers- your three granddaughters, my daughters. Perhaps one day you will meet them.

 

I received a gift on Mother’s Day and it read; “A Mothers love is like a rose, always open, always loving”.

To you this Mother’s Day mom, the mother I never knew, I say thank you for giving me life. I was but a tiny bud when you left- but see me now- I have bloomed.

It was Jesus who watered, His sunshine helped me to grow and it is into His soil that I sink my roots into.

With Him I can weather the storms- He’ll cover me with His wings when it becomes too much for me to bear. And when my soul is parched He’ll water me with His love.

 

And so dear Jesus I ask, please tell my mom I love her, and tell her I’m okay, that You have filled that ache and emptiness with Yourself.

And I pray that one day there will be a reunion- when you take her hand and you take mine and join them together with Yours.

Perhaps then we’ll walk through fields of flowers and sit beside quiet streams. And as we look into Your face we’ll know how much we are loved.

There will be no more tears but complete joy as we behold our Lord- the Lily of the Valley.

But until then I pray, “Jesus, Lily of The Valley, bloom in all Your beauty in the garden of my heart.” AMEN

 

(Copywrited)