Grace
Friday December 1, 1995 is blazoned on my mind. The day the police drove up our long driveway and took him away. For questioning they said. It was late into the night before we knew why. Armed robbery. Twice.
The following Monday, Tim and I squeezed onto the back pew of the courtroom. We had Daniel’s lawyer’s instructions. Go forward when his name is called. Tell the judge you’ve hired counsel and you’d like a continuance.
So we waited. I prayed there’d be no handcuffs.
Daniel’s case was called last. The side door opened. He stepped into the courtroom, hands and legs free. I hurt, not for what he’d done to us, but for what he’d done to himself. For this pain he’d feel for the rest of his life. The judgment other’s would pour on him for this foolish mistake.
Deep in my soul I heard that whisper, the quiet voice of the Spirit. “That’s how I feel when you sin.”
Without shame, we made it to the front. Two broken parents signing in as present. Standing up for their sinner son. “Yes, yes Judge, he’s ours. I know what you think, but we love him. And yes, we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to help him set this right.”
As we spoke, I saw a flogging, an innocent man, and a cross.
Back at home my mind wandered. Fears erupted. I prayed the mattress would swallow me whole.
I thought we’d done our best. Read all the popular books. Gone to church; sent him to private school.
But what if he get’s raped? What if he’s beaten? What if he’s sentenced to life?
For days I tossed and turned. Fear gripped my every move.
And then I remembered God’s grace. And how it had carried me. And even if my worst fears came true, God’s grace would see Daniel through.
After all, it was never my job to save him. To control his every move. Or force him to follow Jesus. If I could, what would be the point of the cross?

So I surrendered all.

Eighteen years later, he’s a husband and a father. A college graduate on his own journey with Christ. He’s creative and strong. Passionate and caring. And he’s a blessing to me, and a reminder to many, of God’s abundant grace.

For My Friend Suzanne
I watched from afar. We shared this journey. Me first than you. We cared for our husband’s during long illnesses. We watched as they entered glory.
Tim and John met once. Do you remember? I was working in Salisbury opening a new store. Tim brought the Harley up and we rode out to your beach house. I believe it was a divine meeting. The start of an eternal friendship.
You are now where I was nearly three years ago. Beginning to learn how to live without the husband of your youth. But like Tim, John left you a gift. A profound understanding of God’s love. An understanding I find difficult to explain to others.
So many people ask where God is in suffering. But those of us close to men like John and Tim saw Him. We saw Him in the way these men rose above their affliction. The way their lives became enmeshed with God. In their suffering, they embraced Him. And God became so real to them and those of us watching.

Where is God in the suffering? I love Philp Yancy’s explanation in his new book The Question That Never Goes Away:
From Jesus I learn that God is on the side of the sufferer. God entered the drama of human history as one of its characters…in a most intimate and vulnerable way… We are right to protest against violence and injustice, and right even to call God to account…We cry out for God to do something for us, whereas God prefers to work within and alongside us… God has chosen to respond to the human predicament not by waving a magic wand…but by absorbing it in person…From Jesus I learn that God is on the side of the sufferer…
I wish I could take away your suffering. The path you’re on is so familiar to me.

But since I can’t, I’ll choose to be on the side of your suffering. To enter into your pain. To hold onto it and share it because I long to be like Jesus. To be vulnerable in the most intimate way.

From Generation to Generation
In September 1948, on a trip to Richmond, Virginia, my father wrote a letter home to his mother in Rhode Island. He was searching for Libby Prison where his beloved grandfather, my great-grandfather was held as a prisoner of the Confederate army.

In the letter, my father details his struggle to find Drewry’s Bluff, the sight of my great-grandfather’s capture. When he found the spot where the old soldier had lay wounded,  letters my great-grandfather had written came back to him.
My Great Grandfather Edmund J Gibson
Inscription in my father handwriting on back of photo
The memory of those letters sparked my father’s imagination. To his mother he wrote,

“The far-off crash of that old battle came louder and louder down the path of years. Leaves of the trees cut off by whizzing musket balls, and old-fashioned white powder smoke swirled around. I heard the shrill Rebel yell from the rear, and saw the first blue-coats, covered with dust, break through the trees on the run…I let my imagination run on until I can see the wounded Captain with the blood stained arm lying against the tree…”

As I read my father’s words, they reminded me of a visit I had made several years ago to the sight of another Civil War battle. My sister Sheila (a Civil War Buff) and I quietly talked as we walked along the hillside of the Manassas Battlefield. Standing below the majestic statue of Stonewall Jackson my two young granddaughters, Josie and Juliette started getting restless.

Attempting to liven things up, I spread my arms wide and gestured to the pasture below.

“Imagine, hundreds of soldiers on horses thumping up the hillside. Their faces tense; their swords clanging at their sides. Look! They’re getting closer and closer.”

With my hands I made noises like horses’ hoofs.  I mimicked the sound of swords clashing. Josie stretched her neck and looked over the hillside, as if any moment she would see troops coming toward her. Juliette, confused said with her four year old lisp, “Grandma, I don’t see no horses.”
Several months later, Sheila and I again stood atop that hillside next to General Jackson’s statue. We laughed at the memory of the girl’s response to my vivid imagination. How strange to read a letter that so intimately detailed my father’s own vivid imagination. Funny how some things are just ingrained in us. How such deep traits get passed from one generation to another.
I’m often taken back by how strong the bonds of family are. Even if we’ve never known our ancestors.

Love – The Best Gift of All
The Herdman kids in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever were “…absolutely the worst kids in the world. They lied and stole and smoked cigars (even the girls).” They were six dirty banged up kids who all looked alike except for being “different sizes.”
After the third time Leroy Herdman stole Charlie’s dessert from his lunch box, Charlie announced, “Go ahead and take it, I get all the desserts I want at Sunday School.” And so began the invaision of the Herdmans at the Second Presbyterian Church.  Needless to say, it wasn’t the Herdman’s who changed the most that Christmas. Their simple response to the gospel affected the whole church.
Several years ago, I slipped a copy of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, into Aunt Jeanne Marie’s bag just before she boarded a flight home to San Francisco. “You’ll get a kick out of this short book. These kids will remind you of my brothers and sisters and me.”
Having lived with us for a year after our father died, Aunt Jeanne Marie got the brunt of our bad behavior.
A couple weeks later I received a Christmas card from Aunt Jeanne Marie. On the cover was a beautifully lit Christmas tree with six lovely children lined up from the tallest to the smallest. With the youngest dragging a teddy bear by its arm.
It was a warm picture full of the best stuff of Christmas. I opened the card knowing a note was inside.
“Oh no Ellen, it began. “You were not Herdman’s, I remember you and your brothers and sisters as being just like the children on the front of this card.”
I laughed out loud thinking, “No, Aunt Jeanne Marie, we were just like the Herdman’s.”
The reality of my life is, I was a Herdman. Impulsive, passionate and destructive. But my aunt refused to see me that way. She chose to love me unconditionally in spite of who I was. She made a conscious decision to see the good in me. She heard the words I said, and I’m sure she saw me whack my sisters. But she chose to discipline me with love.
When I referred to us as a Herdman’s she “corrected” me with a picture of six lovely children.
I am a different person today because of her love. And that love has been passed on to my children and grand children. And that love will continue to echo down through the generations to come.

My Inner Raging Battle
She sat across from me at our kitchen table, her belly bulging with my first grandbaby. The early morning sun streamed through the window. Tim had brought her home from Phoenix where she lived with her husband. After many conversations with friends and family, he decided Kelly was the best person to confront me.
As I dug into a bowl of cereal, her voice quivered,
“Mom, I’m really worried about you. You’re just not the same. You’re so unhappy. And I’m afraid my baby will never know the fun loving mom who raised me. Please go see the doctor. I’m sure there’s something he can do to help you.”
A few weeks later, I sat in our doctor’s office discussing an injured knee. I thought it odd that he kept asking me if there was anything else wrong. My heart pounded. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t spit the words out. Finally I sputtered,
“I think I’m depressed.”
He sat up straight, and shot off a list of questions. Did I get eight hours of sleep, was I exercising and cutting down on sugar, had I seen my therapist lately? It was almost like a preplanned script. Years later, I learned he already knew. Tim had sought his help.
It’s an ever-raging battle, this war I have against depression. Many times, I’ve crept close to the edge. I’ve lost my sense of reason. I’ve argued inside my head against the value Jesus puts on my soul and the worthlessness I feel in my depraved mind. Too often, I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking my family would be better off without me.

This week, my heart is heavy with the news of the suicide of a young Orlando pastor. The man who baptized my grandchildren, the spiritual leader of my daughter and her family. He mistakenly thought his family would be better off without him. I understood his pain.
So many of our battles are fought in places no one else sees. Whatever drove us there doesn’t matter.

When this happens, we all need a grace revolution. A time to set aside judgment and lean in close to one another. To listen to the gentle murmur of the hearts and souls around us. Who knows, maybe we can pull those folks back who are teetering close to the edge.