Destination Discipline

^”Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.“ – Matthew 18:21-22

I have often wondered how many times I can forgive my son. It seems like a small thing to wonder, or maybe even something trivial. After all, Mother’s are supposed to love their children unconditionally. I wonder, is there a difference between loving someone and choosing not to be abused by them? Yes, I believe there is. We can choose to forgive someone and not be in a relationship with them any longer. We call this placing a boundary on the relationship. But how does this work when the “someone” is your child?

Have you ever looked at someone and wished you had something they possessed? Maybe they had a beautiful car or a gorgeous home while you are stuck with leaking pipes and a saggy roof. Did you walk away seething with envy? Did you fester with jealousy and wonder at the unfairness of life? I have a confession to make: I have looked at families with normative children and felt this way.

It is a difficult thing to write about: loving a child with emotional problems. It is hard because people judge you without knowing the full context. I see posts from people with children who have cancer or some other kind of terminal illness. Everyone rallies around them to donate funds for treatment or offer kind words. But those of us with children diagnosed with emotional illnesses often suffer in silence. Sure, we may try to talk to our friends or relatives, but often times they compound the pain by saying things that are hurtful, or at the very least, unhelpful.

A few years ago I was talking to a relative during a particularly terrible time and he told me the behaviors my son exhibited were my fault. He then spent 20+ minutes explaining why this was the case while I listened with tears streaming down my face. It gave new meaning to the phrase, “Double double toil and trouble” from Macbeth by Shakespeare.

Why did God make my son this way?

Is it okay to ask God questions? Sure it is. But I’ll be honest, I don’t always want to hear the answer. Frankly, I’d rather sit in a corner and keep company with self-pity. I’d rather adopt a victim mentality and self-soothe. But where does this get me? Nowhere good, and fast. But even if I have all the answers, my son is the same. Is God teaching me patience? Yes. Is God making me more like Christ because I partake in suffering as He did?  If I allow Him to, yes. Is God using my son’s emotional problems for His glory? Of course.

But why does it have hurt so much?

One can’t reason with a broken heart. 

There is often a breakdown between my lived experience and God’s truth that I am constantly trying to reconcile. God’s word says he loves me, but I don’t feel loved when my child is screaming hate filled slurs at me. God’s word says I am never alone, but no one is with me when I soak my comforter with tears. God’s word says He is strong when I am weak, but I can’t lift my head high enough above the shame of yet another call from a principal and another school disciplinary hearing. There is nowhere to hide where pain and heartache don’t find me. It is … intolerable.

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.” – 1 Peter 4:12-13

My son screamed at me, “I f-ing hate you. Get out of my room.” And then he spit on me. I stood there shocked, but not surprised. I have never been spit on before. How can I love someone so much and be hated by them? What did I do to deserve such vitriol? I have spent thousands of dollars on medications, therapies and counselors and my son is not well. There is no happy ending. There doesn’t seem to be any hope. What do I do? Where do I go for help?

Does God really love me?

I was walking laps around the lake with tears streaming down my face again. How many laps will it take to calm down this time? Two? Ten? I had a distinct thought: “God, do you love me at all?” Before I could blink I felt a response in my spirit. “Margaret, I love you for all time.” I suppose it’s all circumstantial and the rational person will say I was only talking to myself, but I was comforted in that moment by a timeless truth, Christ died for sinners like me.

”But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” – Romans 5:8

If I am to believe what the Bible says—and I continue to choose to believe it whether I feel like it or not—God will forgive me if I confess my sin to Him, even if that sin is doubting His love and care. I often doubt His goodness because my circumstances are so dire. And I praise God that He forgives me each and every time. And if He forgives me, shouldn’t I forgive my son?

“Now who is there to harm you if you are zealous for what is good? But even if you should suffer for righteousness sake, you will be blessed. Have no fear of them or be troubled.” – 1 Peter 3:13-14

I recently heard a youth pastor say that if a parent was having trouble with a child, that parent was probably doing something right. He reasoned that parents who are parenting well often get push back. It is human nature to rebel against authority. I used to brag about my rebellious nature. I threw that disgusting trait around like a badge of honor. No longer. I see the sin of rebellion now like a black cancer devouring healthy cells. Why? Because I have been on the receiving end of irrational disgust and hatred. I reached out my arms in love and was spit on in return.

“But they all cried out together, ‘Away with this man, and release to us Barabbas’—a man who had been thrown into prison for an insurrection started in the city and for murder. Pilate addressed them once more, desiring to release Jesus but they kept shouting, ‘Crucify, crucify him!’ A third time he said to them, ‘Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no guilt deserving death. I will therefore punish and release him.’ But they were urgent, demanding with loud cries that he should be crucified. And their voices prevailed. So Pilate decided that their demand should be granted. He released the man who had been thrown into prison for insurrection and murder, for whom they asked, but he delivered Jesus over to their will.” Luke 23:18-25

They hated a man who healed their sickness and disease. They cried out for him to be murdered. Yet when he died on the cross he prayed, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” Can I do the same?

If I follow Jesus, I must walk the way He did. I must forgive my enemies and pray for those who persecute me. This is a hard teaching. It is counter cultural. And yes, it means enduring undeserved abuse.

I’m not sure who needs to read this today. I don’t know how you found your way to this blog or my musings on forgiveness. I only know that I must forgive my son because Jesus forgives me. My personal experience is that I don’t have peace if I don’t obey. I also know that I now personally identify with Jesus as he was flogged and mocked and spit on. Dear Friend, this is a beautiful thing.

I often walk in the park when the burdens of this world become too heavy. On a different day I walked in the early morning hours before work and confessed to God that I was too tired to carry my burdens any longer. I prayed out loud, “Lord, please carry my burdens for me. They are too heavy and I’m tired.” I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders in that moment. I suddenly felt a lightness of heart. And then a little bird flew down in front of my path—not three feet away—and in the early light of dawn as it pecked at the snow, it hopped towards me. The bird was smaller than a sparrow and had a fiery orange strip on the top of its head. It was a bird that had no business in Missouri. Later, I could find no bird in my books or online that matched its description.

The Lord delights to carry our burdens when we ask Him to. He knows they are too heavy for us. And He often speaks to us in ways our hearts will hear Him best. For me, that day, it was through a little bird hopping on the snow covered ground in front of me. That little bird signified the deep love of Jesus for a broken woman lamenting the loss of normalcy in her child.

God has gifted me with the ability to love and forgive my son in the midst of unspeakable pain and trauma. God has uniquely gifted me with the strength and stamina to love and forgive even when it feels most impossible. If He does this for me, He will do it for you as well. You need only ask and then surrender your burdens to Him.

Sometimes our need exceeds our language to express it. It may be that our pain is so profound, or that we are stunned into silence. It may be that we don’t understand the situation or that we are confounded by agony. The truth is, we don’t always have language to think, much less vocalize, our suffering. We simply know we need help. The wonderful news is, there is a God bigger than our biggest sorrows.

I have chickens. 5 of them, to be exact. I happened into chickens when my son came to live with us a few years ago while going through a painful divorce. He had two chickens he had raised from babies and rather than find a new home for them, I told him to bring the coop and we’d take care of them.

Dutchess and Lucky provided more hours of entertainment than anything I found on television. You see, I grew up in the suburbs so I never had a chicken. I had to learn everything from scratch. I discovered they loved peanuts, sunflower seeds and lettuce. Every day before work I chopped up greens and put them in the coop, and every day after work I let them out to forage bugs from the lawn and eat treats out of my hand. We quickly discovered the wonder of fresh eggs and decided to add four chicks to our flock. I will never forget the joy of holding my first chick and the pleasure of teaching them I was worthy of their trust. We lost a chicken in the spring of 2024 and have happily settled with our five girls.

If one has never owned a chicken, one would never know how intelligent they are. They are also fast. They can run, fly, and hunt. They generally don’t like to be held or petted. Still, when I call them, they run to me because chickens are extremely food motivated. Just like me!

The chickens all began to molt late last Fall. Dutches was first, but the rest followed suit. Molting is a very painful process for a chicken. Not only do they lose all their feathers, they lose half their body weight as well. I think this happens because of the calories required to grow a gillion new feathers. When the pin feathers begin to grow in, it hurts the chicken a lot. They nibble at the pin feather and made sad lamentations. They are pathetic. Not unlike Job, they sit around and “scrape” their wounds.

The late molt coincided with a deep freeze across the midwest. I quickly discovered bald chickens don’t do well in an open coop outside. I came up with a quick solution in the form of a large dog crate filled with wood shavings. My basement is unfinished and as long as I monitor them and clean up quickly, the mess doesn’t get out of hand. I quickly learned the joy of having pet chickens with one notable exception, a chicken is not shy about expressing its feelings and can make an awful lot of noise.

They make soft clucks when they are happy. They purr when they are filled with gladness of heart. But when they are in distress, they make a loud “rawrk rawrk” noise. This usually happens if they are getting ready to lay an egg, but it also happens when they feel threatened or are in pain. I’ve come to recognize that noise, so when they make it, I run to see what is wrong and attend to their needs. This noise saved Dutchess’ life the night she didn’t make it into the coop and a possum tried to eat her. Her loud cries woke me up and I dispatched that critter to the other side of the fence. I thank God she was not seriously injured and only lost a few tail feathers. Needless to say, my ears are very attuned to the cries of my chickens. Why? Because I love them so much!

Our Father in Heaven is also attuned to the cries of his children. Not unlike a chicken who is having trouble laying an egg, He hears us bawking. He never turns a blind eye to our tears. And when the dark nights of the soul arrive in all their blackness, He is still there listening, watching, and loving us beyond our capacity to understand or maybe even sense His presence. He is real. He is good. He is kind.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.” – Psalm 139:11-12

I have been experiencing a great deal of pain for the past few months and have done my share of bawking. And, as I shall write about in my next post, I have doubted the goodness of God. But his provision will never be less than my need requires. In the fullness of time, He has gently guided me through the pain to arrive at a ‘fully-feathered’ life experience. Just as Dutchess survived her months-long molt, I too am revived by His tender mercies and grace.

If you are reading this and you are sad or grieving, please know that you are not alone. If all you are able to do is cry or maybe even utter a loud, “Help!” God hears you. He will run to your aid. He has promised, and this promise is sealed with the blood of His son.

”In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears.” – Psalm 18:6

For good measure, I am including a picture of Dutchess post molt. And I also have to add, because of my tender care of her while she was in pain, she has come to regard me with new tenderness and affection. Not unlike how I come to regard my Father because of His care for me in my distress.

Dutchess in her splendor with new feathers

The holidays have arrived, and with them all the beautiful, tantalizing temptations. Nostalgia fueled dreams fill the senses as I drive through my neighborhood and think of years gone by. For there is nothing I love more at this time of year than holiday lights, Christmas cookies and gifts. Alas, I still view Christmas through the eyes of a child which is, I suppose, how we all view it–for better or for worse.

I’ll never be as good at creating the Christmas experience as my mother is. And that is what it’s all about, right? It’s our responsibility as parents or spouses to create (or top) the experience our parents created for us. Even if we didn’t have a wonderful childhood experience around the holidays, we work overtime to give that to our friends and families.

The Christmas Eve service at church was one experience that was very powerful for me as a child. We would sing Christmas carols and remember the birth of Jesus. That candlelight service inspired hopes and wishes that filled my young heart with wonder. But that experience was less about Jesus and more about what came after the service. We would drive around and look at lights on houses and then have cookies before bed. To this day, I’m uncomfortable not eating cookies at the holidays. And more than that, I still slip into bed on December 24 with the knowledge that Christmas morning brings candy and toys. It still inspires a kind of jittery joy that makes my heart rattle with excitement.

But the thing so many people don’t talk about around the holidays is the pressure to make everything perfect. The house needs to be decorated, food needs to be prepared, and cookies and pies suck untold hours from the lives of those making them. Every year I spend days and weeks doing things to make this perfect experience and on December 26th, I unravel it all back into dusty cardboard boxes and plastic tubs while everyone withdraws with their “spoil” and goes back to their regular lives. All the “Christmas magic” dissipates in a blink. Or if I could be so crude, Jesus takes off his Santa hat and is relegated to the role of “guy in blue and white robe with a manly, manicured mane.”

There’s a lot to be said about the beauty of traditions, but this blog is not that. Candidly, a few days ago I found myself wishing I could fast-forward to December 26th. Why? Because it’s all so darn overwhelming. I don’t enjoy decorating, shopping makes me so anxious I may as well break out in hives, and I get the sweats when I even think about having to bake cookies I shouldn’t eat (but always do). I make so many sacrifices for my family–to make their holidays lovely–which is good, but it usually ends up with me getting physically sick right as January hits from the sheer exhaustion of it all. I’ve tried minimizing, shopping early, not decorating, or just plain begging my family to skip Christmas (which they never agree to). And here we are, December 8th. And the “heat” is on!

The “heat” is the pressure of creating a mood. It comes from a commercially minded culture hell bent on getting their fair share of my wallet. This chafes me. The nonstop marketing, selling and buying, and pretending some of us aren’t depressed, anxious and overwrought with stress. Meanwhile, the real Jesus is probably shaking His head from His glorious, glittering throne.

Because Christmas is not a mood, or a feeling, or a perfectly wrapped present next to a fake tree. Christmas is the moment we should remember when God entered the world and became part of the story. His life and ministry are REAL hope and cheer. He is a God who loves people with food addiction, depression and anxiety. He sees our brokenness and childhood trauma. He takes our shame and all the scorn we heap at him by pretending there’s a fat man in a red suit throwing gifts down chimneys. As if that’s real joy! He is the author of life and has made a way for us to live with Him for all eternity in paradise. It’s the great, good, glorious news–the best news humanity has ever received! Immanuel. God with us. Jesus is the gift for a sin saturated society. He is the cure for our deceitful hearts. Because everything I think I love about the holidays is really all just carefully crafted narratives with nonsense origins. The true story is God-made-flesh, reaching out a holy hand to humanity with a love so pure we can’t even begin to imagine how beautiful it really is. The stories handed down from generation to generation are true. We are loved. We are safe in His arms. Nothing can separate us from this love in Jesus Christ. Incredible.

So today, if you are like me, dreading the next few weeks and filled with fear and worry–fret not. Close your eyes and breathe in the beauty that is our Lord and Savior. No matter how big or small your holiday meals, no matter if you decorate or even clean, regardless of your cookies or crafts or shopping–He is Lord! Celebrate the way you feel led and trust that He is who He said He is.