Hope
Redemption:
it read, written in neat calligraphy, inside a frame, wrapped up in a twine bow.
Redemption.
Nothing felt redemptive in my life, nothing was neat. Nothing could tie up this mess in a bow, with a smile and act like it was ok. Nothing was, is, ok.
The last weekend in April of 2018 started as one of the worst day of my life. It ended just as broken as it started, but it started hopeless and ended full of hope.
I had been to this building dozens of times for other families. This happened to other families, but now it was happening to mine. I watched as my boys were moved into a room we were not allowed to be in and I knew what would follow. I sat with my husband in the Chapel and a dear friend who has fiercely advocated not just for my family but countless others. I tried to put on the same face I had put on for so many other families. I am fighter. I am determined to seek justice, I refuse to let people lose hope even when it seems impossible. This had been my role as an advocate for so many parents over the years as they fought for their kids through our broken systems. To be honest it has been my role since my existence began, I fight against any injustice. But now, in this role, I felt hopeless.
When we left the building, we were shell shocked. What we needed our boy to do he hadn’t and therefore justice was deferred. Our other boy had spoken truth boldly and clearly, but it was not enough. I felt justice slipping through my fingers at that moment.
After trying to pull ourselves together, and send our kids to a “fun weekend” with the grandparents for their courage, my husband and I went off to a ministry couples retreat we had booked months ago. We had no idea how much we would need that rest at the time we made those plans. Still, I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to participate in any feel-good, trust building activities and listen to people talk about their “struggles” in life. I didn’t care. Had anyone there carried what we were now? How do you even explain an experience like ours? Do people even speak openly about pains like these, or are we supposed to make these family secrets? But there we were, and I know the Spirit was working overtime, because my heart instantly softened when I saw the people in the room. I knew some, a few better than others, but these were all ministry couples, and the weight we carry is not the same but it’s familiar and that was comforting. They could not share in our exact pain but they were not strangers to pain.
The couple leading the retreat had never met us, and they especially did not know what we had endured in the past few months. The last night there we received a frame. We were told that the name written in the frame had been written the week before, as they had prepared and prayed for each couple coming. They acted in faith as they wrote the word given to them for each couple.
My husband and I selected the frame marked for us.
Redemption
it read, written in neat calligraphy, inside a frame, wrapped up in a twine bow.
One look at that perfectly written word and I was wrecked. It was like God had written himself into that ink, declaring, “I know you don’t believe, but here I am. I am your Hope. Here I have always been. I am your Peace. Here I will stay. Redemption is mine alone to give. I am your Joy. I am redeeming all things, even this. I love you.
Redemption.
There was a rush of hope over my body. I looked at my husband and I could see it in his eyes as well. This mess; the complete and utter mess, Jesus came to redeem this story too.
I was angry, yes, so angry. But the courage my boys had shown at the start of the weekend gave me hope, when I had none left to give them. God had already seen it all. He saw the "yes” to the foster teen. He saw our hesitant “yes” to him leaving. He knew what would be revealed after he left. He was there when we sat in that office in the beginning of this weekend and justice was delayed. He knew we would be at the retreat and the word we would receive. He gave that word to the couple leading the retreat. He was reminding us that despite the mess, he was our hope.
Hope that Jesus saw our pain. Hope that he was present in that moment and in every moment as our family journeyed through this. Hope that injustice would not prevail. Hope that redemption would come, for my boy, for our family, for this teen…. Hope that peace would come and it would, a few months later in the most unexpected way.
I still cry every time I think of that moment, that retreat, those God ordained events that spoke and speak so deeply to us still. As I was writing this blog I tuned into Jo Saxton’s Tea Time and she quoted this:
““Hope has two beautiful daughters; their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.””
In this season, not just Advent this year, but this season of Covid-19; of waiting, longing, lamenting, we can cling to the Hope of Jesus.
Father is a title layered with complexity. Some of us have great fathers who love us and keep us safe. Others have had different experiences. Despite this reality, Isaiah describes the promised Messiah, Jesus, as an “Everlasting Father.”