just a thought… – Page 3

Journey Through Wanderings

You may remember my friend John P. from a previous Guest Post in December 2010, entitled “The Myth of the One”. John shared some profound insights related to the myth that God has a perfect plan and a perfect match out there somewhere for all singles. One of my favorite statements of his was this:

God does not have a perfect match for us (other than Himself). Have you seen the church? God does not even have a perfect match for Himself!

That entire post is worth another read, even for John who is now married to Kathy, a wonderful Christian lady.

Now John and Kathy need our prayers. He’s recently been diagnosed with B cell lymphoma and has begun chemo. In addition to prayers, I’d also encourage you to follow John’s blog, WANDERINGS, which chronicles his journey through cancer treatment. You can find him at http://johnpyrc.wordpress.com/

John wrote in my guest blog, “We don’t need a perfect plan, or a perfect match. We need to be imperfect, earthen vessels of divine grace to one another as we work out our Salvation. His part of that walk is perfect: ours … not so much.”

I’m trusting God for John’s healing, praying for this earthen vessel of divine grace and for God’s perfect leading through Wanderings. I hope you’ll pray, too.

Plants, Priorities & Perspective: Clarity on What Matters

After a 5 day absence serving at a retreat in Washington, I came home to a dead plant. Not just any plant. One I’d brought home from my Daddy’s funeral 15 years ago this month. Naturally, I’m sad. The plant held special meaning for me. To see it neglected, limped over and dried out evoked unexpected emotions in me. I cried.

Even so, it’s just a plant. I shed my tears, dried my eyes, blew my nose and let it go.

After serving with Hope for the Home Front and Operation Homefront for the past year, having the honor of meeting countless young women attending retreats for Wounded Warrior Wives, I’m learning much about letting go, living with disappointments and leaning in to what really matters. These brave women, most in their 20’s, represent a living classroom of right priorities and clarity of perspective. A dead plant would be the least of their worries.

In a 3 day retreat, one woman in her mid-twenties received over 430 text messages from her wounded warrior spouse experiencing separation anxiety, wanting to know when she was coming home. Another woman spent an entire week preceding the retreat lining up volunteers to stay with her spouse, dress him, feed him and give him meds in her absence. Still others repeatedly left sessions because a husband was calling confused about something or angry that she was gone or stressed out because the toddler was crying. One young woman received a phone call from her neighbors at 10:25 p.m. They spotted her husband wandering streets on foot, experiencing traumatic flashbacks from the battlefield. The police were en route to defuse the situation and escort him home.

Women wearing t-shirts bearing the Wounded Warrior Wives emblem, and one “Marines with one leg are HOT” shirt, shared stories of how dramatically life has changed since their husbands came home from war with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Traumatic Brain Injury, missing limbs, missing memories, missing coping strategies, missing identity. The prevailing questions throughout the weekend retreats are always, “who is this man returning from war?” and “where is my husband?”

Like most of us, these women grew up with dreams. They fell in love with a man who wore a military uniform and they married him with hope of building a life of happy memories together. Many carry a picture of their wedding day, a reminder of more peaceful, loving times. Somewhere along the home front of a returning warrior, dreams abruptly crashed and burned. As my dear friend Marshele Waddell puts it, “Fort Fantasy became Fort Reality and we realized nothing would ever be the same.”

Their disappointments extend far beyond a sentimental attachment to inanimate objects like house plants.

Purses formerly toting make-up, nail files, chewing gum and a photo album of the newborn now overflow with bottles of pain pills and sedatives, a day planner filled with medical & counseling appointments, and emergency contact information. An extra-large diaper bag that held Huggies for the toddler now carries Depends for the husband. She hasn’t slept through the night since his home-coming from Afghanistan in 2008 ushered in night terrors, screaming, uncontrollable trembling, bedwetting, violent outbursts, and hallucinations. A home sold when she had to give up her job & income to become his stay-at-home caregiver. Her goal of completing a college degree is still on hold while student loans continue to accrue interest for the 5^th year in a row. She traded her bright red Pontiac Sunbird for a van to accommodate his wheelchair. A sweet, thoughtful man who once never forgot a birthday or anniversary, who even surprised her with flowers for no special occasion, now often cannot remember her name. The sweetheart with broad shoulders for her to cry on now says he feels less than a man and won’t let her touch him. Marital intimacy ceased; she can’t even remember the last time he kissed her. These are only a few of the stories of heartbreak and hopes gone awry. Many others are too painful to print and too graphic to recount here.

Yet, these women stay…committed, devoted, determined. Friends in the civilian world often question, “Why don’t you just leave?” Comments like, “you’re so young…you’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you…you deserve to be happy,” rip through her soul like shrapnel. She pulls out her wedding photo, her heart longing for the tenderness of that blissful day. But as much as the picture reminds her of dreams long-since dead, it also recollects vows she made and meant… “for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health…til death us do part.” To be sure, not every marriage will survive, but it won’t go down without a fierce battle.

Any woman attending a Wounded Warrior Wives retreat is a hero every bit as much as her husband. She musters tremendous courage just to leave her home front for 3 days to show up. On any given day, she fights on battlefields of exhaustion, frustration, misunderstanding, government regulations, red tape. Her weapons are her heart and soul, her voice and relentless commitment to the one she loves. Her cause is a matter of life and death for her home, marriage and children. Her utmost priorities are faith & family and she’s determined nothing else in this world will steal these from her. Her perspective is selfless sacrifice for the man who sacrificed for her, even when she no longer recognizes that man.

An empty plant stand in my room tugs at my heart, reminding me there is a hedge which cannot wither like a neglected house ivy…this hedge of protection guarding life’s most precious gifts of love and belonging. Seeds sown by Wounded Warrior Wives, watered by her sweat and tears and nurtured by her love, sprout deep roots. Ultimately, her courage bears fruit even if only in tiny increments unnoticed by most civilians. Believing what emerges from her devotion to relationship matters more than anything else in this life, she courageously plants and she trusts God for how it grows.

You can learn more about Hope for the Home Front at http://www.whenwarcomeshomeretreats.com and Operation Homefront at https://www.operationhomefront.net/donationform.aspx?id=15425 .

In Need of Rescue

“We have a semi-mobile baby on our hands – Torin has decided that he can get from one place to another by rolling across the room, so we frequently find him stuck under tables or against a wall, shrieking for someone to rescue him. Silly boy.” ~Kristin

Reading my friend’s post this morning on Face book I had to laugh as I pictured her 7 month old baby rolling himself into a predicament, then wailing at the top of his lungs for someone to rescue him. My first thought was how determined this little one is. Not willing to merely lie around, staring up at the ceiling, cooing gently, he propels himself into adventure, one 360-spin at a time. Pretty ambitious given his age.

Twenty-some years ago my baby son similarly maneuvered himself into some interesting jams and reacted the same. I can still recall little Matthew’s panicked shrieks emanating from a corner of my living room.

What strikes me in this moment is when we are young, helpless and in trouble we instinctively know how to call for help. We recognize we are incapable of freeing ourselves. We cry at the top of our lungs for a rescuer. What’s more, we do so expectantly. We trust that one who loves us will show up to bail us out of our misery and entrapment.

Fast forward 30, 40, 50 years or more. I don’t know about you but I’ve changed since my days of wailing infancy. As years rolled on, rather than crying for a rescuer I began to rely on myself for delivery from tough situations. Backed into a corner of my own making, I struggle and fight to free myself. If I cry at all it is in the form of self-pity mingled with loud complaint. Something like, “Why me?”

Somewhere along this journey, I embraced the lie that it’s easier to claw my way out of a corner alone than it is to ask for help. Asking might imply weakness. Worse, it would mean I have to trust someone to actually want to help me. What if I cry and no one responds? What if I admit my need and someone tells me to pull up my big girl britches and deal with it? What if…

The risks are real. If I acknowledge I am incapable of freeing myself from this world’s ensnarement, if I allow myself to be vulnerable with others, if I trust someone to care enough to lend a hand through tough times, I might be disappointed by those people now & again. More likely, I will be disappointed. They’re human, just like me.

When Jesus said, “you must become as little children…” I wonder if He was pointing us to little Torins and Matthews pressed up against a wall, shrieking for a rescuer. I wonder if He doesn’t look at us and shake His head and mutter to Himself, “silly child” as He sees our plight and awaits our cry of invitation for His intervention.

Ultimately, I know Jesus is my Divine Rescuer. I trust His ability to free me from dark places my heart rolls into in this lifetime. And His sacrifice on Calvary assures final delivery from my corner of this world.

In the meantime, I don’t have to struggle alone. I’m learning to heed instruction from Galatians 6:2 commanding us, “Bear one another’s burdens…” The Greek word for burdens here is baros meaning “heaviness, trouble, crushing loads.” Life’s crushing loads are not meant to be carried alone. We were created to live in relationship, loving others, allowing them to love us in return…however imperfectly…and, yes, crying for help when our back is against the wall.