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Every mother feels them, fears of things that go bump in the night.
Some more than others.
But it’s a universally recognized emotion.

A bunch of our worries are an absolute waste.
Imagined up circumstances, conjured from a hodge-podge mixture of sincere love,
And misguided intuition,
Hypersensitive instinct,
And our own variety of neurosis.
But we feel them right in the gut.
And our adrenalin soars to high heaven.

But some of our scares are actual calamities we’ve prayed against,
that get written into our kid’s stories anyway.
At first, they leave us dazed, like the surprise after a dog bites unprovoked.
Then, we pull up our big girl panties and walk brave even if we don’t feel it, because what else can a mama do?

It’s only Wednesday morning and I’ve already tasted both this week.

On Sunday, the Lake, it blew a gale and dumped a boatload of snow on our little corner of the world. The plows couldn’t keep up and neither could we, shoveling our driveway. My girl, the one with the trusty Honda CR-V named Winston, skated off to church before 9. A few hours later, I followed behind and the roads felt like Rosa Parks Circle after the Zamboni resurfaces the rink. So, I texted my girl.
“It’s nasty out there. Be careful.”
No response.
Then, I phoned her, but immediately the call rolled over into voicemail.
Next, I looked her up on Find Friends and it reported her “Location Not Available,” which triggered my mama alert system. I heard sirens in my head, like the annoying ones the emergency broadcast system routinely tests.

I selected my usual seat, front right for worship, but by the time our pastor started preaching, I’d imagined a fatal car accident scenario, with her organs being harvested even before he finished reading Romans 1. I spent the next thirty minutes prematurely grieving my daughter’s demise.
Wondering how I’d face the rest of my tomorrows without that girl I’d lived with and loved on for the past 20 years.
Pondering what it would look like for our family to limp along after an amputation.
Questioning how to reconcile a vibrant life of love and service cut short on a blustery winter morning.

My theology teaches me that this life is a vapor, here a little while and then gone (James 4:14),   and I believe that our temporal bodies get an upgrade in the exchange, a heavenly set of clothes and a new address, next door to Jesus. In theory, it’s an extraordinary promotion but in reality, it means she’s absent from us. And that feels like a stab right through the heart.

I exited the sanctuary at the close of the service in a daze, scanned the crowds in the atrium and then spotted her, cozied up on a sofa socializing happily with friends. As I approached with a hug targeted for her neck, she commented non-chalantly, “By the way, mama, I turned off my phone today for a technology Sabbath. Just wanted you to know.”

And those two short sentences, they entirely rescripted my fantastical imaginary tragedy and I realized that my mama alert system, it misfired. Big time. So I breathed deep, whispered thanks to the one who gives every good gift, including Find Friends, and took on the rest of my day.

Two mornings later, just before grabbing my keys to drive off to work, I messaged my four faves a reminder of God’s abiding affection.
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord,” says Romans 8:38-39.

Almost immediately that familiar ding, the one designated to my biggest girl, notified me of a reply.
“I was just in a bad accident.”
Those were the words in the bubble.
And suddenly, Sunday’s rendezvous into make-believe car accident drama turned real.
More texting followed and then silence.
The phone eventually rang and I heard her voice, shaken and sirens in the background.
The car, it rebelled on ice and threw a tantrum, drove itself across a snowy median into oncoming traffic and punched another car right in the gut.
Both vehicles got all busted up and left the ones inside tousled too.
Her dad and I, we jumped in our van, destination Chitown, because a parent never stops being a parent.
24 hours later, she’s nursing a mean case of whiplash and a few bruises but it’s only the replaceable that needs to be replaced. And on this morning, gratitude smothers fear and I am celebrating yet another episode in God’s story of rescue.

But the truth is, He doesn’t always rescue, at least not the way we wanted Him to and then our worst possible mama fears aren’t nightmares, they’re bona fide reality.
Terminal diseases.
Birth defects.
Sexual Assault.
Fatal or life altering accidents.
Stillbirth.
Teenage pregnancy.
Chronic pain.
Mental Illness.
Prison sentences.
Suicide.
A Crisis of faith.
Abusive relationships.
Divorce.

And we can’t change it or control it or fix it.

Those are the unexpected plot twists in our stories that shape the narrative most distinctly.
And it is in those parts of our journey that we wrestle with, yet ultimately find integrity and solace in Romans 8:28.

“For we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”

It’s rarely helpful when a sincere bible thumper reminds us of this popular verse. These sacred words own a unique redemptive power and mystery that is most effectively revealed over time and in the rhythm of His unexplainable presence and love that carries us through crisis with a supernatural mix of peace and tumult that can’t be explained to anyone who his Spirit doesn’t reside in.

And so, when we look back on all of the mama moments that have threatened to break our tender hearts,
The ones that have taken our breath away, Or made our hearts race,
The ones we prayed against, But God allowed anyway,
The ones that changed everything, For always,
We see His story of rescue there too.

The musing, it’s quiet and contemplative.
And sometimes it still brings tears to our eyes decades later when we revisit the most  agonizing memories.
But even the most acute pain was tempered by His mercies, fresh and new each morning.
And, when we do the math, they’ve always been more than enough.
So we move into today with all of its unknowns, actual and concocted, holding tightly to the hand of God, confident of more mercies.
And, come what may, that makes us
Just
So
Grateful.

There’s a reason I don’t drink alcohol.
Anyone who can eat an entire bag of Trolli sour gummy worms against their better judgement on the car ride home from the grocery store, has a serious problem with self-control or an addiction to sugar or maybe both.
And I’m not talking about an isolated incident once upon a time.
My blood sugars spiked just last night as I polished off the gummy worms about 6 hours before my 2 am freezer raid which emptied a pint sized container of Graeter’s ice cream right down into my tum-tum.

I wonder how many hundreds, no, thousands of times I’ve driven to the store not sure what I’d buy but intent on securing a sugar fix.

Way back when I was a girl, I’d lift change off my parent’s nightstand and ride my bike to the drug store for a Butterfingers candy bar. In my teens, it was cinnamon pinwheels and ice cream sandwiches consumed in mass quantities instead. Then I went to college where buffet style dining offered me any combination of ice cream, cookies and brownies at every meal with a nice cold pop to wash it all down with.

As I’ve matured, my tastes have become more sophisticated, and with the exception of sour gummy worms and Skittles, it’d be fair to call me a sweets snob now. I snub what I don’t want, but if I’m craving it, I dare you to stop me from eating it.

Robyn, she tries. God bless her.
“Mommers, you said you weren’t going to eat any sweets this week.”
“Remember your diet. You’ve made really good progress. Don’t blow it now.”
“Think about your pants, mommy. You hate it when they feel tight. Don’t eat that. You’ll regret it.”
And then when she’s fed up, she changes tactics.
“OK, go ahead and eat it then. I don’t care if your stomach pooches. Just don’t blame me when you get on the scale. I tried to help you and you NEVER listen to me.”

Sometimes, my conscience gets the better of me and I ask my hubs or one of the kids to hide the Dove chocolate caramels or the Lindor truffles. Then, later, I whine and offer a lame explanation about why I deserve to get them back and make pie crust promises about parceling out the remaining pieces in the bag. But generally, I get caught red handed eating something I’ve said I shouldn’t or wouldn’t instead and end up feeling like a 3 year old with her hand in the cookie jar. Ashamed.

By God’s grace, I don’t have diabetes yet but I do have a dentist appointment on Wednesday to get a cavity filled and I’ve been warned that it’s so deep it might require a root canal. If it does, well, that’s my bad. As the only adage says, “You reap what you sow.”

Anyone who’s an addict or lived up close and personal with one will resonate with my little vignettes, and when I take a long and thoughtful look in the mirror, it’s like I see flashing yellow lights on the periphery of my image warning me of my vulnerability to other potentially addictive habits as well. Like alcoholism.

It just so happens that I’ve got a long list of generational garbage resulting from alcohol abuse. And it stinks. Men who got mean and angry under the influence. Marriages broken under its bondage. Vocations sabotaged. Health compromised. Pre-mature death.
And honestly, it’s not just my kin. Everywhere I look there’s carnage from the misuse of alcohol. Innocent lives cut short by intoxicated drivers. Promising futures traded for jail time. Financial resources squandered at the liquor store. Violence. Rape. Neglect. Abuse.

While I hang in crowds where people generally drink responsibly, at least publicly, enjoying a glass of wine with dinner or the communal experience of a shared craft beer at a brewery, I know a long list of people, including Christians, who have remorsefully shared their private struggle to control alcohol consumption. For them, a stroll down the liquor aisle at the grocery store feels a lot like my own experience surveying the fine chocolate a few rows away.

From my vantage point, the Bible is the authoritative instruction book on life’s lessons for dummies and I don’t believe that it teaches that consuming alcoholic beverages is sin; however, all addictions are sin, evidence of our brokenness manifested uniquely in our person and through our story.

Chocolate, booze, nicotine, pain killers, porn, street drugs, exercise, caffeine, sex, or whatever else we might be in bondage to, it all ultimately disses God. At a basal level it says, “I want something other than you, God, to cope with my ache and make me feel good. You really aren’t enough.”

Some addictions have a higher cost ratio than others though. My sweets addiction, it costs me in dental work and blood sugar spikes. And it costs my family some living expense money but, unlike alcohol, nobody is at risk of me hauling off and slugging them because of its influence, or passing out incapacitated unable to meet my obligations. I don’t jeopardize the safety of other image bearers driving on the roads. And it doesn’t take away my sensibilities or inhibitions. Eating sugar is not destroying my family.

Whatever we’re getting our short-term fix from though leaves us longer-term shamed because addiction’s a hungry monster, never satisfied, always wanting more. And so we do battle inside, good against evil. And every fresh, new morning, we have to choose whether or not we’ll feed or starve the monster. Addictions are multifaceted and complex, sometimes linked to genetic wiring or chemical imbalances. And our habits bore superhighways along the neural pathways in the brain. Nevertheless, we are not left powerless against addictions. We make choices and when we interrupt the pattern of addiction repeatedly, we form new neural pathways according to God’s amazing design. And every fresh, new morning, His mercies are enough to empower us to resist our addictions and abundant enough to lavish us with unconditional love even when we fail.

So for me, it just feels like a no brainer. Alcohol and I, we’re not right for each other. And this holiday season, I’m pulling out my plastic wine glasses from the Dollar Store and stocking up on my sparkling grape juices in all of the specialty varieties at $2.98 a bottle. And you can just call me Little Miss Teetotaler, thank you very much.

She’s officially a teenager. The baby, that is.
And more than ever, I’m realizing how quickly hellos turn into goodbyes.
Especially in parenting.
Sometimes I noticed.
Other times, it was as elusive as my breath on a crisp, fall evening.

I don’t remember the last time one of my girls got buckled into their seat in the grocery cart and I bought them a donut while I shopped.
Or when I handed them the final penny to ride Sandy the pony at Meijer.
When did I change the last poopy diaper or applaud them for going potty in the toilet?
And when did they get too big to carry piggyback or on my left hip?
I can’t recall when they served me the final gourmet meal of plastic peas and a rubber hamburger.
Or outgrew the princess costumes.
I don’t remember which home movie was their final production.
And what the sermon was about the last time they leaned against my shoulder, breathed long and went limp.

Last year on this day, my “little” and I drove 2 hours due north for our pre-puberty overnight adventure. And the grand finale, it’s now in the archives too.

I remember the first time I planned this exclusive trip.  I had no map.  My mama, bless her heart, her radar didn’t detect the storm called adolescence. She wasn’t tracking with my physical, emotional and relational turbulence. I wanted to be more intentional with my girls, offering GPS services toward destination “Womanhood”.
So I studied a curriculum, carefully selected an adorable little B and B an hour away, prayed with my husband and tucked an invitation partially under my daughter’s pillow.
She packed her suitcase, giddy with excitement.
That night, she and I ate dinner at a sit-down restaurant, nestled into plush terrycloth robes and watched a movie together eating soft, homemade cookies and drinking milk in wine glasses. The next morning we savored a gourmet breakfast on china listening to soft classical music.

Tucked in with the feminine pampering was an objective.
To prepare her for adolescence.
Our first lesson started with a puzzle in a Ziploc bag and 10 minutes to put it together.  She had no box cover and struggled.
The take away?  You’ll have better success navigating your teenage years with a guide and God provides one primarily through His Word and your parents. They’re your box cover.

The instructional CD’s we listened to warned her of the importance of choosing friends selectively and the dangers of peer pressure.

Another session detailed how her body would morph from girl to woman and how a boy physically transforms into a man.

I described the holy union of a man and his wife, explaining that any substitute is a cheap counterfeit according to God. “It’s a jump off a dangerous cliff,” I said, encouraging her to stay as far away from the edge as possible. Especially at 13.

This rite of passage was as unique each time as the child experiencing it.

Last fall, it was my baby’s turn. I knew it was time.  Just a few weeks before, she’d sobbed, “I can’t think of any exciting adventures for my dollyhouse family anymore.” Escaping to the innocence of imaginary play eludes as reality invades. And her mind and body are obviously in sync.

So I scheduled our special get-away. Instead of a B and B, I reserved a room at an indoor water park hotel because Lord knows this child has been gypped out of play time with Mama. I packed my trusty curriculum but when we arrived at the hotel, she was wildly excited to ride the waves instead, so I shelved it for later that night and threw on my swimsuit to join her. It’s exactly 57 steps up to the waterslide. We dragged our raft to the top and rode down double. Multiple times.

Tubing along the lazy river,  I was quietly conversing with God, words that only He could hear. “I’m insecure. My confidence is in the tank and I don’t know how to do this parenting thing right.”
Sigh.
“What  does this girl need from me to be ready for what’s next in her story?” I inquired reflectively. And the lull of the gentle current relaxed me, attuning me to hear God’s tender reassurance. “You’ve got this,” He whispered gently. “Instead of focusing on what’s next, why not celebrate what has been. After all, you can’t relive any chapter of your story and neither can she so you might as well delight in what you have today.” And I suddenly realized that one of the best ways to face the future is to recount the gifts of the past and savor the present.  And what better way to prepare for adolescence than to celebrate childhood with an outrageously fun play date.

So I climbed those 57 steps 28 more times and we competed at water basketball, and then the obstacle course. And after a chatty, chicken fingers dinner at the hotel restaurant in yoga pants and tshirts, we sat by a roaring fire in the lobby for storytime. Then, we went back to our room and remembered the goodness of God throughout her girlhood and anticipated adolescence with confidence that God can be trusted with that chapter too.

We rehearsed together a long list of friends and a bounty of shared memories.
I affirmed her good choices, her trustworthiness and resistance to peer pressure so far.
I let go of cautionary advice and allowed myself to wonder with her at God’s miraculous design for relationships, bodies, marriage and reproduction instead.
I chucked the curriculum and trusted my gut.

Younger me thought that parenting was more formulaic.  Sincere love multiplied by affirmation and open, honest communication added to enriching opportunities,  individualized educational plans, sound doctrine, disciplined training and protective warnings, that produces a healthy kid–physically, emotionally and spiritually.
To older me, it looks a lot more like a crapshoot.
You bring the very best cards you’ve got to play to the table and set them down with as much courage and confidence as you can muster. Then humbly and prayerfully, you trust that God knew what He was doing when he made you these kids mom, brokenness and all.
You pace yourself because this isn’t like a game of Spoons. It’s more like a Monopoly marathon where a single role of the dice can leave your broke and busted.
You take risks that extend beyond your comfort zone.
You own the ways you cheat and manipulate for a win and be the first one to apologize.
You pay close attention to each player’s turns and don’t miss strategic moves with your focus on your electronic device instead.

And mostly, you release to God all of the firsts, lasts and everything in between.
Then you watch with baited breath,
Resilient hope,
Childlike curiosity,
And steadfast confidence in His fresh mercies, new each morning to see what God will do.
In your story.
And in theirs.

It’s the leaves. They’re the harbinger of autumn and they’re already dotting my green lawn red. My girl, she picked one up last week and greeted it. “You’re not welcome here!” she stated matter of factly as she deposited it into the dumpster.

It’s not that we don’t love fall, we do. Both of us. I spent 13 years aching for the rhythm of northern seasons. Every September I’d decorate the inside of my house with colored leaves I bought at Michael’s and paper mache pumpkins I found at Hobby Lobby. I’d light apple scented candles and pretend.

But you can’t just conjur up the smell of a crisp, cold morning and the sight of misty fog hovering over the river or the taste of s’mores eaten by groups of sweatshirt clad teenagers at a bonfire. And there’s no simulation for meandering through an orchard and picking ripe apples off the tree.

Those lazy beach afternoons, they’re over.
And I wish I could stop everything from moving so fast.
Summer.
Our kids growing up.
My birthdays.

It feels like I just keep turning pages on the calendar.
The signs are everywhere.
The school bus squeals to a stop at the neighbor’s house promptly at 3.
The breeze carries the smoke of burning leaves wafting in through my kitchen window.
The first pumpkin cake of the year just came out of the oven.
The chrysanthemums, they’re ablaze outside my front door.
And as I type on my laptop, the Fall, it’s etched into my bulging veins and wrinkly fingers too.

I glance down at the computer screen. It went to sleep while I studied my hands and my customized slideshow starts flipping through the favorites in my digital photo album. There are a handful of people rotating through my visual story. The ones who’ve walked with me through decades of seasons.
In sunshine.
In rain.
In wind and storms.
And I wonder how many miles we’ve walked together….figuratively and in our tennis shoes.
And I wonder how my kid’s lives might be different now had these dear ones not been praying for them.
And I wonder if my marriage would’ve survived if they hadn’t listened long and offered commeraderie and accountability.
And I wonder who I would be without the faithful wounding and bandaging of my friends.
Who would we be without each other?

We are all getting older, moving through our life cycle.
Pictures don’t lie. At least mine don’t since I’m not tech savvy enough to edit them.
And it’s Autumn.
That awesomely glorious, precursor to winter, where everything goes dormant, lifeless, quiet and cold.
And I’m tempted to fight against it.

Then I remember my girl. The one who dumped the bright red leaf in the dumpster.
We drove together quiet to her first college class just the other day.
Then randomly, she commented, “I don’t want to go back to school.”
Silence.
She glanced my direction and added this little golden nugget.
“I suppose we should just embrace it.”
Silence again.
And like an afterthought, she threw in, “We spend so much time resisting things….”
And she’s right.
And this is the life lesson.
It’s such a waste to squander the mercies instead of counting them.

So in my own personal Autumn I’m choosing to
Be curious.
Sieze the day.
Savor the moments.
Seek peace.
Love lavishly.
Let go of injury.
And live grateful for the ones who are helping me write my story.
Because every season has its own beauty for those who have the eyes to see it.

To the north, the sky was breaking into color like someone unleased a three year old with a box of crayons, but to the south, clouds lay heavy across the skyline dark as charcoal, like Van Gogh painting during a bout of despair.

“Always face North,” that’s what I tell my girls, and even the weather backed me tonight.

We climbed the dune barefoot against the cold, squeaky sand. Part way up, tucked behind the beach grasses, we surprised a couple entangled in a hammock. And they surprised us. I expect we were the answer to some mother’s prayers in the mysterious sovereignty of God because they packed up and headed out while we laid out our blankets at the peak of the rise and scanned the horizon. The water reflected gray off the sky except for the stripes marking the sandbars. The seagulls scrounged for crumbs along the shore until a Labrador puppy chased them out into the Lake.

My “little” engineered stair steps up the dune with only her hands and her ingenuity, while my “bigger” girl and her kindred spirit, the one who came to us from down South, sat cross legged talking easy about everything and nothing all intermingled. We took a couple of selfies and I complained about my image so my girl, she picked some wildflowers growing rogue on branches in the sand and wove them into my hair.

“Mommers,” she commented endearingly “now you look like a teenager.” She spoke confidently, then picked up her iphone and snapped a series of pictures, mindful to avoid the angles that accentuate my double chin or feature my crooked teeth and minimize the creases that permanently mark my forehead.

As I contemplated the waves, I thought about my 50 years and countless trips to this beach. And the breakers, they just keep rolling in and pounding against the shore, every single time. They are unharnessable like the God who reveals Himself in the steady beat of their rhythm. And I am a spectator, watching His power and plan on display in the story of the water and in all of my stories.

The charcoal sky crept up on us as drops of rain began to fall steady, so we grabbed our blankets and trekked across the beach, down the path through the woods to the parking lot.  And I heard a song in my head, louder than the waves.

“From where I’m standing, Lord it’s so hard for me to see where this is going,
And where You’re leading me.
I wish I knew how all my fears and all my questions are gonna play out,
In a world I can’t control.

From where You’re standing, Lord, You see a grand design that You imagined when You breathed me into life.
And all the chaos comes together in Your hands like a masterpiece of Your picture perfect plan.

One day I’ll stand before You and look back on the life I’ve lived.
I can’t wait to enjoy the view and see how all the pieces fit. 

When I’m lost in the mystery, to You my future is a memory, ’cause You’re already there,
You’re already there.
Standing at the end of my life, waiting on the other side.
You’re already there. You’re already there.”
(Already There, Casting Crowns)

It’s just our first beach trip of the season and I can’t predict this summer either. It’s pure mystery, totally unharnessable, except for the assurance that His goodness and mercy are as inevitable as the waves lapping against the shore.

I’m a mom of one of those over-achieving smart kids.
I’m not bragging.  The longer I live, the more I realize how little I have to do with my kids’ competencies.
I’m watching them unfold with as much wonder and surprise as the next guy.
God’s the one who wires them together and I just get a front row seat to watch the connections solder and see the light show.

My high school aged daughter signed up to take College Algebra and Statistics at our local community college this semester.  She’s a mathematical whiz but behind the wheel—not so much. Lucky for her, she’s got a reliable taxi driver.  Enter “mama” on the scene.

Community College sits in the hub of downtown right between our premiere hospital campus, the civic theater and the public library. I’ve always loved our skyline built along the river with its trademark blue bridge and the imposing mirrored glass high rise hotel. I’ve never been a “local” in the downtown scene though. We live in the burbs in a ranch on just over an acre. Going downtown is typically saved for intentional occasions and hospital visits.

The first day of class, I exited the highway to Pearl St. and noticed a homeless guy holding his sign at the intersection near the traffic light at the bottom of the ramp. When I turned the corner, there were a couple others huddled in the underpass on an icy winter day.  We parked in the cavernous garage across the street from campus and I walked my daughter to class then headed for the library to study over the next few hours.

I had a list of good intentions in my purse, plans to pursue my own adult education in those hallowed halls over the course of a semester.  I walked briskly along the edge of the cobblestone street.  The wind bit my cheeks and my eyes watered. I passed a couple more urban outdoorsmen loitering along the sidewalk.  Near the main entrance a small cluster of dudes needing their pants pulled up huddled close smoking cigarettes. I walked around them, entering through the tall wooden double doors.  A guy sitting on the bench in the entry vestibule, nodding off to sleep, served as the welcoming committee.

Our main library is a historic building with high ceilings, carved oak trim and marble accents.  The ornate wrought iron staircase leads to a foyer with gold detailing on the ceiling and tables and chairs along the periphery.
Before commencing my academic pursuits, I toured the premises since I hadn’t seen it after its renovation about a decade ago. The old fashioned charms were preserved while updating functionality and moving the grand entrance to its original location.

It was a hopping place that frigid morning.
On the main floor, computers on tables lined the center of the enormous room with bookshelves on either side.  That’s where the folks who enjoy free internet usage park. I noticed that many of the patrons donned overstuffed backpacks or garbage bags that they guarded protectively.  The tables on either side of the shelves were full too, a kaleidoscope of men and women.  It wasn’t primarily a nerdy research crowd sitting at the tables. It was more of a tired looking, bedhead group of people with an occasional book propped in front of them while they worked their phones or engaged in animated dialogue by library standards.  Many seemed pitiful by day and frightening by night.

I wanted a seat by the window wall to watch the snow dancing in the street. So did all of the backpack people. Eventually, I circled back to the upstairs foyer and found a table in the corner of what I’d describe functionally as a modified lunch room. It was mostly men munching bags of chips and drinking soda pop for brunch.  A few had their heads on the tables sleeping off a hangover or a lousy night’s rest in a cold park.

I walked away from the library that first morning to my reliable minivan with a fantastic heater like a student with a new class syllabus. I had a preview of what to expect at the library going forward but I wasn’t engaging the material yet.

It took several weeks of sitting at the tables, watching and listening to begin to connect dots, see patterns and hear common themes.

It was always a sizable crowd at the library but on sunny days when the thermometer tips above freezing, I usually scored a window seat.
The security employee circled her route and passed my table every half hour or so as the guardian of peace in the hallowed halls.
I’m a little ADD so when the conversations got too cacophonous, I’d pack up my computer bag and move to the QUIET study room to concentrate.  I didn’t mind sharing it with the patrons who took refuge there for a few winks of peaceful rest even if they snored but I lost patience with the ones who disrespected the sacredness of silence and engaged in Donald Trump’s brand of locker room banter instead.

I started to recognize some of the regulars.
There are the ones who always seem to be on their phones talking to their parole officer or their social worker, securing housing, working out child support issues. Sometimes the dialogue is as colorful as the variation in skin tones.

Then there’s the elderly gentleman who mumbles to himself about everything from World War 2 to what he had for breakfast—incessantly.  He shuffles aimlessly around the first floor on the clock–every 15 minutes- and then returns to his favorite table, the second on the right.

And, there’s the man with the chronic cough on the left.  I strategically try to position myself as far away as possible because I don’t have time for another long bout with pneumonia.

The guy in dreads I sat by last week reeked of smoke so intensely, it triggered my athsma as the woman next to him breathed slow, heavy methodical breaths.  I wondered what she dreams about…

Another lady at the table to my right chatted with a comrade who greeted her warmly and commented that he hadn’t seen her lately. She explained that she’d just been released from the local psychiatric hospital the day before and while she was there her boyfriend went to prison and her mom died.  And it all spewed out in 3 consecutive sentences.
Whew! That’s a lot to hear.  Imagine what it’s like to live in that story.

Homeless people, refugees, cancer patients, criminals, homeschool moms, white collar execs, we’re all people living a story.
And honestly, most of our stories are pretty hard—even if they look easy to spectators.
We’re all broken.
With all these books on both floors of this impressive stone building, the information can’t fix the fractured hearts, bodies and psyches of the people sitting at these tables.
Including me.
I’m sitting at my table in the library hurting too.  I’m quieter about it. And it’s easier to hide.  I don’t smell bad and I carry a computer bag instead of a backpack.  My purse looks designer even though it’s really just a knock off second hand from Goodwill that I paid $4.99 for. I look more put together but I have my own saga of brokenness and it’s good to remember that so as not to get haughty.

I desire wholeness, mental stability, self-respect and security, both personally and societally, for the homeless folks who have been rubbing up against my life the past few months.
But political figures or philosophies can’t create it, Laws won’t either.
Clever photo ops and free lunch are well intentioned but they’re no solution.
Widespread problems are rarely fixed formulaically.

I expect that these calamities are all in the mysterious and redemptive design of the heart of God to remind us that we need Him. He has a long term solution to fix what’s busted but He doesn’t work in the gigahertz speeds we’ve come to expect as products of the internet age.

That lady next to me who just got released from the mental hospital, God’s pursuing her. But He’s patient and kind, willing to let her sit in the mess of her sin until she get desperate enough to respond to His gentle invitation of forgiveness, His promise of an eternal home and His unfailing, unconditional love.
He wants her to know that the cross I’m wearing around my neck changes everything for her…. and for me.
Yeah, we’ll both still will have to walk through this life damaged, broken, scarred.  And yeah, we’ll still need counselors, a justice system, a medical care facility and agencies of compassion; but ultimately, there is hope.

I need to see people, like the lady at the next table through Christ’s eyes- hurting, complex, loved.  Just like God sees me.  And from that vantage point, perhaps even more than a token donation, a prayer and a simple act of solidarity, understanding and respect would be a great place to start to brighten up the dark corners of her day.

Today’s the last day of the semester.  My girl is taking her exam.  She’ll text me when it’s over and tell me how she’s bummed that she missed a point and only got a 99%. Without a doubt she’ll ace the class and walk away with a check mark next to her college math credits. Goal accomplished.

My education hasn’t been like that.  I had no idea that my taxi service would tutor me in homelessness, a sociological condition, a marginalized population that I’d only brushed up against minimally back in my college days. There’s no grading scale for learning new facets of compassion and no letter grades for living wide eyed in a hurting world.  We’ve never mastered the material and there’s no end date to the brokenness this side of heaven.

Maybe that’s actually the best education of all.  The kind that keeps you wondering, that takes you beyond yourself,  that offers you a broader snapshot of humanity and intermingles your story with it. There’s a whole lot of books at this library but it’s the people at the tables, the living, breathing pages of countless narratives that sparked my curiosity, touched my heart and taught me the most this semester.

(I wrote this article last May. I miss those mornings in the library and I’m grateful for the life learning I experienced.)