Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

Hero to Zero

…until you lose your Super Powers.

 “Everybody come look at this!” a nurse called from the hallway, waving us all towards the break room. My assumption was there was more food – pizza, sandwiches, cakes that had been flooding in from the community. Or maybe more cards from elementary school students. Thank you for being a hero! in crayon or markers. We all piled into the small corner room – nurses, CNAs, housekeepers, doctors. From the fifth floor, we were able to get a good view of the road that wrapped around the hospital. A parade was moving slowly by, horns honking, flashers on, flags waving. Thank you, heroes! Thanks! Thank you! various homemade signs proclaimed. I watched this unusual spectacle for a minute, because we were, after all, at work, and thought this:

  • If I’m a Hero now, then I’ve been an undercover hero for over 30 years. AND…

I do miss the free lunches!

  • This won’t last long.

It was 2020, probably late spring, the kickoff to the pandemic that was supposed to be a predictable bump in the straight line of healthcare and we were ready. But Covid19,  the Coronavirus that tiptoed into the world during 2019, was not to be reckoned with. It was skittish, volatile and completely unpredictable. As the world divided into vaccination camps, and Dr. Fauci became another pop culture icon, we donned our gowns, gloves, eye shields and N95 respirators and went to work. My job is an RN, which means I care for sick people.

I became a nurse during the AIDS epidemic of the 80’s. “Universal precautions” was the new buzzword, which simply meant wear gloves, stupid. We didn’t know how it was transmitted at first, so we were fitted with these hideous Hazmat-type respirators. I’ll never forget the expression on a young  AIDS patient’s face when I walked into his negative-pressure room wearing one. I took it off. It was enough that he had a death sentence. The isolation and shame of being an “untouchable” is a scarlet letter medicine can’t redeem. But we can reach through the barrier and love. Was I a Hero? No. I was just trying to follow Jesus through a dark and murky unknown, just like Covid19,  35 years later. Sometimes the heart has to go before the science – that’s just my creed. I’ve been called Reckless. I like it better than “hero.”

Jesus understood mankind and our faithless affinities. One day, the crowds are shouting, “Hosanna in the highest!” as He is led through a pressing crowd of adoring followers. A few days later, many of these same fans are yelling, “Crucify Him!” And they did. I know Jesus felt a lot of things on the cross, but Surprise was not one of them. He knows what we are made of. And He loves us beyond what we can imagine anyway. As Oswald Chambers puts it:

“Our Lord trusted no man; yet He was never suspicious, never bitter, never in despair about any man, because He put God first in trust; He trusted absolutely in what God’s grace could do for any man.”

June 2021, I left work for several months to have a hip replaced. I came back just in time for the real wave to hit, the “curve” that looked more like a tsunami. As I got on the elevator, I noticed a carefully framed sign hung at eye level.

ZERO Tolerance

Our staff is here for you and has the right to carry out their work in a safe environment.

Violence, foul language, and/or abusive behaviors are unacceptable.

Verbal threats or acts of violence will not be tolerated and may result in the immediate removal from this hospital and/or prosecution.

If you are seeking care, you may be screened for prohibitive items to ensure the safety of everyone in the hospital.

 Hmmmmm. We’ve come a long way from parades and free lunch. They must’ve found out we were just human after all. By the time I hit the 5th floor, I realized something profound. Hero to Zero. It’s best to trust in neither – accolades or threats. Just do the next thing, and trust God alone.

I am not a Hero, and I never have been. I’ve taken care of dying Covid patients, AIDS patients and a multitude of no-less-important cancer, cardiac or “Comfort Care” end-of-life patients. Just this week I held an exhausted wife and let her sob into my shoulder. Healthcare can be triumphant, as we lined the halls back in 2020 and cheered Covid survivors on their way out the door. But it can also betray. We are frail. For all we try our best to do, we fail. To me, the heroes are those that reach beyond the limits, in obscurity, and touch the untouchables, letting sorrow have its place. “Mourn with those who mourn.” (Romans 12:15 NIV)

Just like the airlines, the supermarket, and used car dealers, healthcare has changed. Raging against those of us who have stuck it through will not bring it back to the pre-Covid good ol’ days when complaints and anger were linear, and the answers attainable. Many patients and families have expressed grace and gratitude and we appreciate that more than you know. But as Chambers said, to be Christ-like is to trust in God and what His boundless grace and mercy can do in any situation. That’s where I stand, without the cape, and preferably without the N95. May He continue to use these old hands to heal, reckless in His love.

Left on the whiteboard by an elderly patient I cared for.

The Club With No Title (and Five Things You Can Do To Help)

        We don’t have a title!
I wasn’t quite sure I understood my friend, sitting across her living room from me.
         What?
         We don’t have a title. You know, like woman who have lost their husbands are called “widows.” But mothers who have lost a child have no title. She looked at me as if I’d have a logical explanation. Honestly, in the 20 years that I’ve belonged to this peculiar group, this thought has never occurred to me. But I also understood that this precious woman, who has not even buried her son yet, was not thinking in a linear way. It’s just part of the crazy package, trying to get a foothold somewhere, feeling for something familiar or safe. But you can’t. Instinctively you know you can’t because it’s all changed – everything. People like to call this Shock. I guess it’s as good a word as any, although it seems to denote something fleeting, that when it subsides, you will be “back to normal.” But there’s the Big Lie.

         Recently I was contacted by a stranger. She said she read my book and loved it. Then she said she gave it to her psychiatrist friend who was visiting from San Francisco because she had a client who lost a son two years ago and “was stuck.” I paused at this. Stuck? According to who? To an algorithm learned in med school? To an impatient counselor who is frustrated by a mother’s inability to “move on?” This could be conjecture, but in the 20 years that I have sat across a table sharing coffee with women who are trying to comprehend a world without their child, I still can’t come up with a Normal. In fact, I tell them, “Be as crazy as you want and take your time. There is no wrong way.” This drives people nuts who don’t belong to this club. You don’t get it, you never will, unless you lose a child. And we hope you don’t.

        My mother lost a son when she was 36 and I was eight. After that, every time she heard of a child dying, she’d look away, her eyes suddenly turning dark, and say, “Someone’s life is about to never be the same.” Deep calls to deep. She knew somewhere there was a mom falling to her knees, a mom becoming one of us – the very exclusive group with no title.

        I’m often called when this happens locally. I don’t think it’s because people think I have an answer or some kind of formula. You can’t stop a tsunami. More and more I believe it’s because people are afraid. It’s not only unfamiliar, but it touches a deep nerve within every parent.

Maybe I’m not really in control.

        But the thought is quickly vanquished, like a bad dream. Instead, we try to figure it all out, just like Job’s friends in a story ancient as time, but still so profound today. Or we run.

“An odd by-product of my loss is that I’m aware of being an embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do, and if they don’t…Perhaps the bereaved ought to be isolated in special settlements like lepers.”― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

         And then I get calls like this: “What can I do for …?” or “I don’t know what to say!” That’s a good place to start. So here’s my five things. I know there’s a lot more, but this is just a punch list to get you started.
1. Be a listener. That means forever, because a mother always wants to talk about her kids. Yes, even when they’re dead. You can’t make us feel worse, or remind us of our loss. We don’t forget, ever. We just get good at acting like we have so you can be more comfortable. I still love it when people tell me Spencer stories, or just say, “I miss him!”
2. Please don’t say, “Call me if you need anything.” I know you mean it, but we won’t. We have a hard time getting fully dressed every morning. We don’t know what we want or need, other than our child back. So be creative. Surprise us!
3. You can’t fix it. We don’t really notice what you do, it’s just that you care. Conversely, we also notice what you don’t do, or if you’re not there.
4. We learn to smile, to become two people. A public person, and a private person with a pain deep and inexpressible. It’s a long exhausting road. Remember that. We need a lot of grace. Be gentle.
5. This is not a matter of who is strong. No mom is strong enough to bury their child. Dumb cliches like “God never gives us more than we can bear!” or cheap platitudes like, “At least you have two other kids!” or “I could never go through that!” offer no comfort, and maybe just add to our pain and isolation. Try being quiet, giving hugs and just being there.

        Right after I lost my son, one of his dearest friends, Emily, came and stayed with me for a couple of months. I’m sure she did a lot I never noticed, but her sweet presence, her smile and sometimes her tears mixed with mine gave me great comfort. She was just there, accepting my craziness, no answer to offer, just love. Did I mention love?

        I’d like to come up with a snappy title, but the truth is, we know who we are. We greet each other with a sense of relief and familiarity. “You know,” we will say. I do.

        Almost twenty years down this never-ending road, I am grateful for so many who chose to come close. In a fumbling, awkward dance of love, you reached into my brokenness and stayed. Thank you for that. But I could never be where I am today if it weren’t for the one who was always there, never left and still stays – Jesus, “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” He was the anchor that kept me, the Healer whose hand stayed pressed against my shattered heart. And He is the only one who can Redeem – beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning. Find Him now, before the waters begin to rise. It’s the very best thing of all the Things You Can Do.

Therefore let all the faithful pray to you
    while you may be found;
surely the rising of the mighty waters
    will not reach them.
 You are my hiding place;
    you will protect me from trouble
    and surround me with songs of deliverance.

Psalm 32:6,7

Miss you Spence!

 

The 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out

 

The crowd

Bap, bap, bap...the sound of a basketball hitting pavement still gives me a strange sense of comfort. I am transported back to gymnasiums, the squeak of sneakers on the floor, the shriek of a ref’s whistle. Though my eyes never left my child, eventually I learned the 10 rules, and caught on to many of the endless sub-rules, say for dribbling.  No traveling, double-dribbling and watch the clock – you have 5 seconds to pass.

All three of my sons played to some degree. Spencer, the oldest, quit high school and sports with it, but was instrumental in mentoring and encouraging his younger brother Miles through his high school career. Miles played into college. Jake, ten years younger and several inches taller, played into high school but stepped down so he could focus on God’s direction for his life. Many times, I could hear one of them approaching home as daylight faded. Bap…bap…bap. It’s a simple relationship between a boy and his ball.

So it made sense when the Yarmouth police chief introduced the idea of a memorial for Spencer at the Old Town House basketball courts. It was 2004, two years past his murder and all of the court proceedings had finally wrapped up. The Yarmouth police recognized Spencer as a hero, someone who gave his life for another, so plans were made.

I remember it was blustery cold, but the two courts were crowded that day. Police and firemen stood in uniform. Detectives, ex-thugs, my pastor, friends and family, church folks, the assistant DA and Sue O’Leary from the Victim Witness office all mingled together on a chilly fall day. We served cookies and hot cider and a group from church rapped a song Spencer wrote.

“This is a message to my heavenly Father

Who picked me up when I was helpless, broken – I needed shelter.”

As the leaves skittered across the courts and the trees tossed in the wind, God was there, moving among the people, finding just the right place in each heart to press upon. He was there to hold a broken mother, to point up and say “Look!” It was no ordinary celebration. When Jesus is in on it, all heaven will rejoice.

Bap…bap…bap. It’s July 1 2021. I’m sitting on one of the two stone benches that flank the stone memorial for Spencer. Miles and Jake are shooting around on the court, their wives and children are close by. Miles has announced that it is the 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out. If you didn’t know, there were 13 of them, each year growing larger and expanding from a few guys passing the hat for the winner, to racks and refs and grand prizes, not to mention free raffle give-a-ways. Last year was a Covid casualty. This year was a combination of a tired director (my husband) and it landing on the edge of everything suddenly opening. Anyway, it wasn’t happening. Until now.

  Flyer from 2018

It’s one of those quirky things in a mom who’s lost a child. Like the shoebox my mom carried for fifty years with my brother’s soldier, Christmas stocking and First Place ribbon he won at a field day right before he died at age nine. I get it now. I carry my own “box,” real (yes, there is a box in the attic now almost 20 years later of Spencer’s things I can’t toss out) and imagined. I imagine he will be always remembered, always a hero, always the gentle young man who loved others the way Jesus does. Grace upon grace.  But people grow up, move, change…even forget. Time has no mercy, but allows us memories, like souvenirs.

I don’t know whether my sons consciously realize it, this sometimes painful processing that I do, although less often now. The quirkiness. They are grown and changed too. Men that still love the game, even though they laugh at their waning endurance on the court. Men that still love their brother.

 

The ball hits the backboard and bounces into the hoop.

“You still have a great shot, Jake,” Miles says. And I know that still means a lot to his not so little brother.

“Okay,” Miles announces as he stands at the three-point line, “for the 2021 Spencer Macleod Three Point Shoot Out, whoever gets the next three-pointer wins.” As he is still speaking, he shoots, and the ball swishes through the basket. I’m pretty sure he did not expect it and we shout and cheer. The grandkids are climbing on the memorial stone and laughter fills the air. Time slows down long enough for me to pull this all in and hold the moment. Did you know that God was right there again? You may even wonder if Jesus likes basketball and I think it could be true. All I know is 2021 may go down as one of the best three-point shootouts ever. But what does a mom know? Except that her kids are the best.

Cousins

 

If You Have a Cough, Fever or You’ve Just Had Enough

He will be the sure foundation for your times, a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge; the fear of the LORD is the key to this treasure. Isaiah 36:6

  “If you have a cough, sore throat or fever, please report immediately to airport security at your terminal.” Then in Chinese, the same message would follow. It was January 6th 2020, and I was in the Hong Kong International Airport for a three-hour layover. I would hear this message repeat approximately 15 times before I left. By then, it had become a droning din along with all the other announcements in mostly Chinese. But looking back, I should’ve wondered just a little. I should’ve felt the earth rumble beneath my feet, the world shifting and groaning for the unthinkable – a world-wide pandemic. Instead I climbed aboard a 737 jet stuffed with college students from China returning to school in the US after a long winter break. As I settled in for a 20hour flight, my last leg home from Malaysia after visiting my son and his family for Christmas, the last thing on my mind was how a small microbe from China would change the world. Just three days later, the WHO announced what the Hong Kong airport already knew – the discovery of a mysterious virus in Wuhan China.

Little microbes everywhere!

Fast-forward one year. My car is littered with masks. I have learned the Social Distance dance, where body language determines intimacy, as we dosey – dose into an elbow bump or maybe just a flapping hand that looks like a wounded pigeon. We are New Englanders here, so the six feet rule in itself is no hardship. Yet for loved ones, especially those who are vulnerable, we are charting new waters without a compass. We are too cautious or blatantly reckless. No one gets it just right.

Tomorrow marks 19 years since my son Spencer died. The earth did more than rumble that day – it opened up and swallowed me whole. When I could emerge and look around, my world was completely changed. Anyone who’s lost a child knows this – you don’t put your life back together. You must build a new one. Nineteen years later, I can see back to those early days of smoke and rubble. Yet there was one thing that did not change – my God. I couldn’t feel it or even see it for a while, but I had a foundation to build on, I had a Helper to build alongside of me. “Come to me,” Jesus says, “and I will give you rest.” As long as I stayed close by, it wasn’t even hard. Tedious, tiresome and slow. But there was rest.

Nineteen years is a long time to miss your boy. But I look at what God has built, in my life and the lives of those I love most and prayed for most, and I am grateful. When Moses shuddered and stalled before stepping back into Egypt to face Pharaoh,  God simply said, “Tell them I AM sent you.”

I AM answers every question before it’s even asked.

I AM omnipotent.

I AM omniscient.

I AM the Beginning and the End – the Author and Finisher of your faith.

I AM mercy and wrath, justice and grace, holy and Love everlasting.

And a sure foundation.

I’ve never had a problem with fearing God. The One who strings the stars also formed me in the womb. He heard my cry from the wreckage of a life lived without him, and He reached into the sludge and rescued me. I am more in awe of His power and grace now, 33 years later, than then. I don’t want to take a step without Him. It’s a holy fear – the good kind. And when I met Jesus, the one He sent to redeem and save us, all of heaven threw a party. All of God’s kids get a party – they really know how to have fun in heaven

There’s different kinds of devastation. Losing your child is a head-on collision. In one second – it’s all over. Covid-19 is a slow leak. We think we can fix it, or at least slow it down, but then we see another leak. For all we’ve done, or not done, it’s worse than ever. We’re tired now, just doggie-paddling with the current, masks on.  Uncertainty blankets the future, anxiety morphs into hopelessness. I will not give you more numbers – percentage spikes in addiction, suicide and violence. Bleak economic predictions. It’s just not good.

“Come to me all you who are weary and heavy-laden.” Jesus again. How does He know? Refer back to the I AM part of this blog.

I admit I get weary too. I’m not sure when I can fly to Malaysia again. I’m not sure my vaccination will work or won’t kill me. I’m a nurse in a hospital filled up with Covid patients and I want to die when I put on PPE that feels like I’m shrink-wrapped and talking through a wad of Wet Wipes.

God is there and He’s waiting. In a world that can’t control a microbe, God is still in control. A sure foundation – won’t you go to Him? Jesus has His arms open wide, and once He has you, He will never let you go.  Heaven waits for another party and I hope it’s yours.

 

In Christ Alone

By Celtic Worship

 

 

 

The Prize

 

“God help me to know and to live like the time is short. To give you all I have today. Tomorrow is really not promised.

  • Spencer Macleod

 

The quote you just read was written by a 19-year-old. Less than three years later, he left this world forever, his life complete three weeks short of his 22nd birthday. Above my bureau, which is splayed with earrings and makeup and half-used perfume bottles, a picture of Spencer hangs, printed on a board with his words etched across the top. He is holding a microphone, he’s in South Africa, sharing his testimony and Christian rap he wrote with hundreds of high school students. His face is tan, focused.  And he is looking upward.

Looking up – I have to post reminders around my chaotic life, reminders to reorient my perspective, my vision. Things are fairly dismal on planet earth. We try to speak hopefully of “maybe next year,” when things will return to normal, when we can meet for coffee without being assaulted with a book of rules (a restaurant today asked me to complete a form for the CDC. I declined.) We seek truth, we long for hope. We’re so tired we didn’t even go buy batteries and water for Hurricane Isaias. And God knows we all have enough toilet paper.

I think when you lose a child, you gain a piece of eternity. For the longest time, I simply wanted Spencer back. Don’t tell me he’s in a better place. A better place is sitting at my table, having coffee or pot roast. But slowly my gaze has shifted over the years. I’m looking up. “I press towards the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus” Philippians 3:12. This has been on a blackboard in my dining room for almost 10 years. I used to change the verse, but this one stayed. As my eyes catch the chalked scrawl, I am reminded of what matters. Look up.

So what is the prize? I’m not sure. Heaven, just for starters, and that’s reason enough. But I think to God it’s much more specific. He weaves and pulls and stops. And I think sometimes He just steps back and watches and waits. God is not in a hurry, not in a panic over all this. What seems like a fretful mess to us is not a surprise to God Almighty. He is big enough to name the stars of an immeasurable universe, but close enough to speak in a still small voice.

“This is life eternal, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.” John 17:3

It sounds like life eternal can start right here. I think that was something my son Spencer figured out as a teenager. He knew heaven was closer than we think. “To give you all I have today.” That’s exactly what God is waiting for.

I learned a new phrase a couple of years ago when my son Miles and his family sold everything and moved to Malaysia. “Third Culture Kids” or TCK’s, are children who spend much of their formative years in a culture other than their parents’ or passport culture. Three of my grandchildren are TCK’s now. Brooklynn, almost 12 and Olive, 10 have had to reconcile their lives to a place that is really not “home” culturally, but have also let go of a place they left over two years ago called “home.” They are in a sense, homeless,  although they love Malaysia. Quincy, age four, thinks he’s Malaysian, even though a classmate calls him “Olaf” who is a snowman. The “third culture” is neither here nor back there. It is a unique life that is separate from both worlds, shared with other TCK’s.

Homeless.  I started to think about this, how it must be hard for these two girls at times, but then I realized they are way ahead of most of us. If we call ourselves Christians, followers of Jesus Christ, then we are all homeless.  We are all TCK’s.

Jesus told us clearly that His kingdom was not of this world. Paul wrote,

“But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” Philippians 3:20

What am I holding on to? What am I keeping in my back pocket “just in case?” What am I stockpiling? Money? Facebook friends? Retirement plans? We have not chosen God – He has  chosen us. If His word is Truth, then “we are not our own, we are bought with a price.” (1Corinthians 6:20)

For a long time after Spence died, the world seemed one-dimensional to me. The life I lived before was gone, and none of it mattered anyway – career, friends, approval. I was holding on to my other two sons with a tenuous grip, but all else seemed pointless.  Even an ocean sunrise or fall foliage looked tacky and fake. My heart had disconnected and I deeply yearned for home, to just check on my son, and maybe have a small conference with Jesus.

Eventually, I resigned myself to life on earth.  Beauty came, but it was not in the ocean or the mountains. It was in the projects of Pawtucket, the faces of all the children who walked through the doors of our little storefront church, many scanning the countertops for something to put in their pocket for later. I found beauty in sitting at a breakfast table with three mentally retarded men, delighted in the new day and amused at their guest. Though my heart still ached for heaven, I had found contentment in the hidden places that God pointed to. Then one day, God gave me His joy. It wasn’t in my work, or even my family. It was when I looked up, across the clouds that blazed behind a dirty city landscape. I was looking for Him and He surprised me with a splash of joy, real joy that brings renewal and hope – just a taste of what’s to come. It’s enough.

Plant your feet firmly therefore within the freedom that Christ has won for us, and do not let yourselves be caught again in the shackles of slavery. Galatians 5:1 Philips

We are Third Culture Kids. We can’t go back; we seem to not quite fit in here. And as Spencer wisely noted 20 years ago now, “Tomorrow is really not promised.”  But there is a beautiful freedom in that, and we DO have a home, a better place, and joy within the journey. On that day, our homecoming, we will be complete.

Look up! Let’s keep our eyes on the prize – the high calling in Christ Jesus.

 

 

 

“God Be With You” by Selah.  Enjoy!

 

Flying With Beethoven

The dust spun and danced in the late afternoon sun, then settled for just a short time upon the black Steinway grand piano. I waited on one of the many hard chairs that lined Mrs. Adams living room with my sheet music on my lap, until she waved me towards the kitchen as the previous student left, and inspected my hands while I washed. Only once did I show up with dirty hands.

            A week earlier, I had asked Mrs. Adams if I could learn the Moonlight Sonata. I can’t remember now where I heard it but something inside of me was unstuck and released within the haunting melody – as if I found someone who could speak my language, who knew. I loved Bach and Haydn but this! It was like finding an answer without knowing my question, and I wanted more. She gave me a little half-smile, and said nothing.

            As we sat down together on the bench, she reached for a booklet of sheet music on top of the piano. “Beethoven” was in large letters across the top of the page, then “Sonata (Moonlight)” underneath. She handed it to me to look at, and probably observed the expression on my face go from delight to worry. It was almost 20 pages long.

            “There’s three movements. You probably only heard the first.” And she was right. The first is the most famous – slow and rhythmic, the chords shifting and swinging in and out of darkness and light.  I would discover the second movement was lighter – almost playful at times but unpredictable. The notes were played staccato, a tap dance across the keys. Then the third; it sounded like rolling thunder. My hands were about to learn how to fly! But first –

            But first, I had to learn the right hand – all 19 pages, flawlessly. No pedal, no feeling. Then the left, the bass, clunky and dull, stretching my small hand across the octaves with precise rhythm, counting out the rests and pauses to the 16th note.  Finally I could put both hands together, and as the metronome swung back and forth, the sonata began to take shape. Still, this took time, synchronizing two hands to the measured language across the page. Months. Then one day, Mrs. Adams turned to me and said, “And now, with feeling!”

            This was more than just the whipped cream on the sundae – it unlocked the door into the music. And although the Italian directives like allegro (fast or brisk), crescendo (gradually louder) and pianissimo (very quiet) were dictated by Beethoven’s hand two hundred years ago, breathing life into the notes, this door also let the music become mine. I could fly with the Master, under his wing, but solo. What was his, became mine. I did not realize at the time that I was learning one of life’s most crucial lessons. Discipline first, then freedom. The lines drawn by the Creator of all things, including the metric language of all music, lay the foundation on which we build. Obedience, then blessing. Divine order.

            Two years later, I stopped lessons. Mrs. Adams told my mother she had nothing more to teach me and suggested I go to Julliard in New York City.  But the weak frame holding up my family was collapsing under the weight of my brother’s death a few years earlier, so instead I ran away, searching for freedom, for flight and that door in the music where my soul could escape. There were moments, fool’s gold, when I thought I had found it, but the freedom I sought entangled me in the long run. Angry, alcoholic and broken I was unable to shake loose. I was trapped.

            It’s funny, but when I first met Jesus, my soul leapt. I had almost forgotten the Door but here it was! And just like that, the trap was broken and I was free. But as the thirty -odd years have passed by, I have relearned the art of discipline. Sometimes I am just playing the left hand, sometimes both, not because I love to or it feels purpose-driven. I just do the next thing, because it’s right and in the going I am learning how much I really don’t know, and His patience becomes mine. Then, usually when I’m not expecting it, God shows up in His glory, and breathes upon it and I can hear the melody.

            Shortly after burying my son, I came across this:

“Grace rooteth not out the affections of a mother, but putteth them on His wheel who maketh all things new, that they may be refined, therefore sorrow for a dead child is allowed to you, though by measure and ounceweights…” Samuel Rutherford

            Measure and ounceweights? Refined affections? This seemed a bit harsh at first, but over the years, almost 18 since I lost my son, the necessity of discipline, even within the most unspeakable pain has proved its place.  Isn’t the true essence of faith often like playing with the left hand? Prayer is hollow, Jesus is not calling, There is no melody, no place for interpretation or even appreciation. It is boring at best, terrifying at worst. There were days where I felt as if I was on a tightrope over a huge gaping abyss… in a black-out. Slow, one unsure step at a time towards a place I couldn’t see. It was exhausting, but eventually, over years, it led to a wide open place, a higher ground with a better view. There I had a new song I could not have learned any other way. No short-cuts – I looked.  

            Western Christianity often looks like whipped cream on whipped cream. Church websites lure the flock (often Christians from other churches) with pictures of lattes, videos of pretty girls in dark theaters with neon lights, eyes closed, arms raised, swaying to the music. Or bands on huge stages where they have enough room to skip and dance.Now that’s important. So when the lights are turned on and everyone goes home, will you have something to take with you, to practice? Something that God himself picked for you to learn. Or will it seem too hard?

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. ” Hebrews 12:11

or try this:

“Whoever loves discipline loves knowledge, but whoever hates correction is stupid.” Proverbs 12:1

            Disciple means discipline. It should not be easy. It is not skipping across a stage.

            We need to fly – I do.  Those precious times when God has brought me into His sanctuary, the place of refreshing, of vision and hope – every believer needs that.  But it is not our entitlement. We are His own, bought with a heavy cost. Our rights, our affections, our dreams are handed over to Him to place on the wheel. And when He is looking around for someone to use, he will need “a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.” 2 Timothy 2:21

            One day, every follower of Christ will get called home. And I think it will be a little like when Mrs. Adams said, “And now, with feeling!” Because then it will become ours, even though God made the whole thing. And we will have the answer to the yearning that haunts every human heart, and all the discipline, the refining  by ounces and measure, the turning on the potter’s wheel will become radiant glory, His eternal song will be ours as we worship at His throne. If I see Beethoven there, I’d like to thank him for pointing a little girl towards something deeper, something that only Christ could complete. But until that day, first the right hand.  Perfect! Now the left…

 

PS Here it is. Yes I could play this when I was 11. But definitely not now!

https://youtu.be/4Tr0otuiQuU