Seven years ago, our family was navigating a new city, ministry fails, racism, legal injustices, puberty, a mental health crisis, losing a baby and having a baby within 365 days. We met our neighbors through the fence and shared just a few visits. We had nothing but cloudy chaos to offer, but Patrick and Kelley kept popping over with a kind of brightness we couldn’t resist. Patrick took pregnancy photos for us in our backyard. Kelley made a baby blanket when Benjamin was born.

I've been playing an old hymn on repeat. My younger children don't understand the 18th century lyrics, but we've worshiped wholeheartedly to "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing". Something in that song is reaching something in us, so I did a little digging on the story behind it.

Robert Robinson lost his father as a young boy in the 1700's. He had to grow up fast, start working young, and ran the streets of London as a gangster. Robinson convinced his gang to heckle a Methodist gathering when he was 17.

A certain worship song spurs me to write the call to worship on some weeks. On other weeks, a passage of Scripture, a conversation or current events inspire me to write. This week, I listened to a song on repeat. I knew I’d write about it, but I didn’t know what I’d write or why.

The song title, “Less of Me” reminded me of a conversation John the Baptist had with his disciples after Jesus started baptizing. John’s faithful followers were becoming indignant that Jesus was a rising, baptizing public figure. John, however, was overjoyed the Messiah had been revealed.

Our church just hosted a two-day women’s event. God’s presence was so palpable among us the second day that I choked up as I shared the idea He had given me the night before. The ladies were sitting at tables spread with abundance—gifts, flowers, hot drinks, snacks, beautiful decorations. They graciously received the idea I shared before our final time of worship.

I grew up in a family that celebrated “birthday months”. I thought it was the only way to celebrate and was sure I’d carry on the rich traditions. It hasn’t played out that way, however, as anticipation costs my autistic son immeasurably. At just 7-years old, he’s asked me to not tell him when it’s his birthday or anything exciting at all - until it’s time to celebrate.

My birthday is at the end of August. We usually whisper-plan a family meal or date night. My birthday tradition with friends is to eat an exclusively chocolate meal at my favorite cafe in town.

This year, I’m not even calling it August - it’s “My Birthday Month”. (But please don’t tell my 7-year old!)

Cory Asbury released the award-winning song, “Reckless Love”, in 2017 and was thrust into the crosshair of Christian critics. The worship leader was accused of misrepresenting God as “reckless”. He took advantage of the spotlight to talk more about God’s love. “…His love bankrupted heaven for you. His love doesn’t consider Himself first… He doesn’t wonder what He’ll gain or lose by putting Himself out there. He simply gives Himself away on the off-chance that one of us might look back at Him and offer ourselves in return.”

We’re in week three of school holidays, and it feels like my skin is buzzing with over-stimulation and high needs. I’ve been more irritable, often setting off a chain reaction with my son who shares my snap-crackle-pop nervous system. My world shrunk as my thoughts looped on my own struggles. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’m painfully prone to self-rumination.

I don’t think it’s just me. The Israelites sung “songs of ascents” to turn their minds from hardship to hope on the arduous journeys to Jerusalem.

Human nature is drawn to hiding and disguising. It’s our futile attempt to protect ourselves from the effects of sin. It started in the beginning. Adam and Eve exchanged walking with God for a taste of life outside of Him. After just a bite, “they made coverings for themselves… and hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden.” (Genesis 3:7, 8)

Much later, sinful King Ahab of Israel convinced righteous King Jehoshaphat of Judah to go to battle with him. Prophets had predicted Ahab’s death in this battle.

I've been praying specifically for "the joy of the Lord" for our family this week. Our autistic son is in a kind of burnout I never knew a child could experience. He is home with me full time and has almost no ability to access to himself, relationships, or any measure of delight. Paradoxically, our household feels like we're walking on eggshells AND our legs have been cut off at the knees.

Since interceding for joy, the meltdowns and heartbreaking moments still happen... But joy entered too. Joy that felt foreign. Joy that didn't match, didn't fit, and didn't "fix"anything either. Honestly, it gave me false hope at first. Maybe this would end soon. Maybe the intensity would let up a little. But that's not it.

The joy of the Lord isn't the absence of hardship. It's the nearness of Christ.

I clocked a new level of “frazzled” this week. I couldn’t even tolerate a worship song playing in the background of my overstimulating life. Surprising even to myself, I responded by burying myself in stories. The memoir of an admirable Christian leader played in my headphones while I folded towels and mashed potatoes. I read the journal entries of a 19th-century woman’s journey toward God when I would normally turn to social media. Internalizing the way others told their stories quieted my own story just enough to give me a small measure of perspective.

I’ve been a self-taught weightlifter for ten years. I purchased a secondhand set of adjustable dumbbells a few years ago when caring for a very young child and one with extra needs made it harder to get to the gym. Those dumbbells finally broke beyond repair last year, so I joined an Olympic weightlifting gym. I had never learned the Olympic lifts but quickly fell in love with the sport. I decided to go all in and even got a pair of lifting shoes for Christmas. I could feel strength building in my entire body and see the evidence of muscle definition. Gaining strength has always been a way for me to honor God with the body He’s entrusted me with.

I was excited to get back to the gym after our recent trip to America. My son with a nervous system disability has gone into a state of burnout, however, and I am currently his 24 hour co-regulator.

My son’s nervous system disability is preventing him from participating in typical 7-year old things right now. Even the most basic parts of daily life are too taxing right now.

I sent our hairstylist an SOS message this week, promising to comb out the matted mess on the back of his head before we came for a “no grooming required” cut. She gave me a speedy trim while my son warmed up to the environment with headphones on

A poor subject asked Alexander the Great for a small financial gift. Alexander gave him a large city. When the poor benefactor insisted the gift too great, Alexander responded, “The business is not what thou are fit to receive, but what it becometh me to give.”

I read this account in a Biblical commentary, paralleling the extravagant gift to God’s lavish supply of wisdom for those who ask. (James 1:5.) Upon further investigation, I learned Alexander the Great most often gave for self-glorification. The large gifts were cruel burdens for those not equipped to bear the responsibility.

Have you ever sat down for “quiet time” with the Lord, but your thoughts were too loud? Or determined to “get back on track” after wandering off the narrow path but didn’t know how to find it? A relationship with God can feel intangible and hard to grasp, at the current speed of life.

Recently, after a whole lot of life left my head spinning, I sat in front of my Bible blankly. I wondered if ancient words would land on present turmoil. I turned to the Psalms, knowing the authors poured out unfiltered emotions and messy life in those pages. I found relief in Psalm 105. The first five verses actioned specific ways to turn toward God while life rocked, rolled and roared.

One week ago, I was boarding the last flight home from our two-month USA trip. I enlisted USA’s Transport Security Administration’s (TSA) support service for each flight because my autistic son struggled tremendously in transit. “TSA Cares” provides a Passenger Support Specialist to get you through security and to your gate.

Our last flight departed from “the world’s busiest airport”. I had been warned repeatedly that support was dependent on availability, and they were “very understaffed”.

My youngest sons and I are traveling through America. The boys have loved meeting family and learning their heritage. My 7-year old son has complex special needs, and the travel has been overwhelmingly difficult for him. We have canceled flights, changed plans, and seen less people than we’d like to accommodate.

Last week, we took a long flight from Houston to Los Angeles to submit South African visa applications. The airport, flight, LA traffic, hotel stay, and waiting in a big office was more than my son could handle. My mom was with us, and we’d planned on staying with her from that point. But her home was three hours away. My son just couldn’t. We sat on the floor of a train station in LA, completely exasperated…

Yesterday was a “get through it” day. The needs of my 7-year old autistic son, Benjamin, trumped the plans and preferences of everyone else. On those kind of days, I choke back parenting principles to let safety and regulation be the priority.

Wyatt, his 4-year old brother, tried to process the long, hard day at bedtime. With tears streaming on his pillow, he said he didn’t want his brother to have hard days. Wyatt confessed he had disobeyed because his brother was disobeying, and he wanted to have the same kind of day as his brother. Wyatt loves his brother fiercely. He does everything he can to stay in close proximity “to make sure he’s ok” and puts Benjamin’s needs above his own.

My youngest sons and I are one month into our USA trip, with at least one month to go while paperwork clears. We’re currently in my hometown, staying with a woman who’s like a second mom to me. My mom drove 24 hours from the west coast to be here in Texas with us.

Right now, my boys and I are struggling with allergies and bad coughs. My autistic son’s autoimmune condition is activated, making regulation impossible. There’s a whole lot of coughing, crying, and “body alarms going off”. Still, the admin has to get done. Passports, social security cards, drivers license renewals… lots of uncomfortable government waiting rooms.

I’m writing this 10,000 feet above ground, from an airplane somewhere between Tennessee and Texas. My youngest sons and I have been away from “home” for almost four weeks to renew necessary documents for life abroad.

When we arrived a few weeks ago, the twangy accents caught me off guard. My kids are being raised in a country with 12 national languages, so they just assumed people were speaking other languages!

Have you ever wondered why it’s called “Good Friday”?

Today we remember the Son of Man, the Word made flesh, crucified on the cross. (John 1:14) He left heaven for earth to walk with us and talk with us. On Thursday, Jesus was betrayed. On “Good Friday”, He was “pierced for our transgressions” and “crushed for our iniquities”. (Isaiah 53:5) The crowd cursed Jesus while He prayed for their forgiveness. For our forgiveness. (Luke 22:34) Nothing could have seemed good on that Friday.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, "The cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise godfearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ.”