The Greater...

I remember this morning six years ago vividly. Up early to prepare for the delivery of our daughter whose heart had stopped in the womb. The drive to the hospital that afternoon, the wait in the hospital bed, the nurse (Glenda) who wheeled me back (alone) to the delivery room, the sound of a newly born infant crying in the delivery room connected to mine, the touch of Glenda's hand on my mine as she squeezed it reassuringly. These are all things that I remember and think of often. I remember the recovery room and Glenda's voice telling us about footprints and birth certificates. I remember leaving the hospital in a wheelchair, footprints in hand, baby left behind.

It may seem that my loss was great that day six years ago. For me, it is the greatest loss I've experienced, but even as I type, I know others (some whom I love dearly) who are walking through even deeper, even greater losses. What six years have taught me is that I really know very little about loss, death, and that deep, deep valley in the shadow of death.

I could remain focused on my lack, that I don't have a dark-haired freckled girl in kindergarten this year, that I don't iron dresses that twirl, or paint fingernails, or put bows in hair. I could...

But God did something six years ago, something that is far greater than anything I had experienced before or since.

Yes, He took my daughter, a little girl with a big birth defect that He could have healed. This knowledge has always been with me. My God is not impotent. He is mighty and powerful and the Creator of All things. Even the moment Glenda wheeled me into delivery, I knew that in that moment, He could have made all right with her, He could have breathed life into her lifeless body, He could have made her heart beat again. He could...

But God took from me to give to me. Today, I reflect upon the gift He gave six years ago.

John 1:14 "And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth."

I wish I could explain to you the way in which God stepped between me and my circumstances and eclipsed my pain. Every time I remember the shock and pain of hearing she would die, I immediately remember the way in which Jesus bore that sorrow for me. I remember the inexplicable joy I felt during my pregnancy. Joy that didn't match my circumstance, but matched my Savior. I don't know why He chose to show me His glory in that way, but I do know that He did.

I asked Him---I begged Him to help me. I cried out that I was weak and could not carry a baby that was going to die. He came down to me. He knelt with me. He took up the weight of my burden and He carried it for me. And as He was there in that place with me, His incredible, indescribable glory overwhelmed me, filled me with uncontainable joy and delight. It was odd to feel so incredibly happy when you are pregnant with a baby who is going to die.

I wish I could show you what I knew to be true about Him and what I continue to know even now. I wish I could tell you what He told me as I clung to His Word and listened with ears to hear.

He could have saved her. He could have given her back to me.

But God had something greater for me...Himself.

Today, I celebrate the life of Ella Grace Thurman--though she lived only momentarily in this life, she lives forever in the next. Today, I celebrate the gift that I received through her death---a knowledge of the Holy One that has no price for it carries me through every day and everything that I face. It solidified my faith, it firmed up my foundation, it was the Word Becoming Flesh in my life. It is the greater because He is the greater.

Today, I am reminded of my lack in this life, but reassured of my plenty in the life to come.
Today, I am overwhelmed, brought to tears remembering the greatest gift my Savior has ever given me.
Who am I that He would do this? May I always be found faithful to Him in all circumstances.

Happy Birthday Ella Grace Thurman. My heart overflows with joy knowing you are in the presence of your Creator experiencing the full glory of our Lord. May you dance today in His presence in a dress that twirls with bows in your hair. May you know that I love you, but He loves you perfectly.

Because A Black Boy Calls Me Mama: Part Two

That there is a part two to this blog post is saddening to me. Sometimes, I'm dangerously close to being disheartened, but the truth that God is bigger and mightier than all, including things like racism, prejudice, agism, classism, poverty, and so on and so on rings clear in my mind and on my heart. My words will not end these things. Truthfully, I think until our broken world is made new by our risen Savior, no sin will end.
At the start of this post, two more black males have died at the hands of white police officers. I know little facts about either case. I can make no judgment and won't. I can speak to the emotions that these stories evoke in me. Being a black boy's mama requires that I lean upon Jesus daily. I have NO idea what it's like growing up black in America where blacks and other minorities have been systematically oppressed. I find everyday that there are things I don't even consider that black mothers do consider when raising their young sons.
For example, I bought my boys cap guns yesterday. I thought nothing of it except that my brother and I had cap guns when we were growing up and we had great fun with them. They were over the moon about them and opened them immediately when we returned home. It wasn't until I saw them chasing each other around our large back yard, firing their cap guns at each other, that I thought, "Is this a good idea?" We teach our children gun safety from a young age and keep our guns locked away, but they have always been allowed to play with toy guns---usually nerf guns or water pistols. These cap guns look nothing like real guns really. They are big and fat and made from clear plastic, but something inside my heart quaked a little. The question: "Would this cost James his life one day?" Would my allowing them the freedom to imagine and pretend that they were police officers ("the good guys") chasing down criminals, one day mean that my son is thought a criminal?
Truthfully, I dismissed my thoughts as silly and said, "No. I don't think this will happen to us." And that's where I'm separate from black mothers. It's never happened in my family. I have no personal experience from which to draw. This is my white privilege.
I've thought a lot about James 1:19 these past few days. "Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger." I've realized in my meditating on this verse that maybe African Americans don't need another white person defining their experience or trying to explain their situation. Maybe they need to be allowed a voice, a chance to speak for themselves to people who are willing to really hear them.
I am left to wonder though, have their voices been muted too long, have their cries fallen on deaf ears too long? I sincerely hope not. I'm here to hear, to listen, to offer only my ear and my prayer.