I had one job. To get my grandchildren to school on time this morning. The careful list of instructions left by my daughter spelled it out clearly.

“Leave the house by 7:15 am.”

I am clever. I remember the ordeal a simple task of loading the car can be. We stepped out the door at 7 am sharp with the idea fifteen minutes to load would be ample. Silly me. It’s been too long. I should have started at 3 am.

The Boston Terrier escaped when the door opened, which was no big deal because she self-potties and runs back to the door. Unless there is a raccoon in the yard. She took off like a bat out of hell and disappeared into the woods.

First the children went in hot pursuit— but to no avail. They were impressed how their skittish dog penetrated the forest with no reserve. Then it was my turn. Into the woods I went.

Looking up, I spotted Olive’s obsession in the branch over my head. Leash in hand, eventually I corralled our domesticated crazed beast and coaxed her out of the brush and back into civilization. Enough adventure for one day— these kids must get to school!

Buckled back in, I press the ignition.

“Key fob not found.”

I am holding the fob in my hand. This is a push button ignition. Ugh!!! Ok, there is an emergency manual key hidden in every fob — I extract it and look for the insertion slot.

Dashboard. No. Under the cup holder. No. In the storage bay. No. Dash again. No. By my knees. No. Ugh!!! My grandson Brave mentions the penalties levied against him for arriving late.

Ugh.

Quick thinking, my beloved searches google “Mazda Fob Reset” and gets the vehicle to respond to the fob. Off we go! Thank you, Grandpa!

I do not know my way around Nashville. But I am quick with my GPS and equipped with the address pre-loaded. Only upon arriving at the first spaghetti junction, the options the program presented me did not match the road signs. Each road may have 4 names, but only a local can supply the names not present on the sign overhead. And I am no local.

Pulling off in heavy traffic, I switch programs and the alternate app chooses a route actually represented by signage. How was I to know it was a fifteen minute diversion to make a loop back around? And loop we did.

I prayed for a miracle- a teleportation wonder where somehow we pull into car line right on time. That miracle did not happen. My grandchildren were late to school this morning, my first day behind the wheel of their parenting, entrusted with their precious lives.

But a miracle had taken place, over a number of years actually. The miracle of being able to remain calm under pressure, the miracle of not accepting the shame offered me after failure. The miracle of seeing the humor in circumstances real time, even when the outcome feels like it makes me look bad. The miracle of being present and loving life and being connected to the God of the universe who is smiling at me as I navigate loving well in the midst of stress.
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Rescue comes in the form of a Person— through Divine camaraderie and empowerment. Today, in the midst of your own story, receive His provision and watch the same miracles unfold.

Earlier this week I had worked out a deal with a Turkish company to use my photography in a product they manufacture. The arrangement crashed upon discovery that some invisible quality of my photography is not good enough, resolution numbers behind the scenes defining how large my photos can be expanded. I use an iPhone as my camera. That is all I have. It has been enough, until it wasn’t. My inventory of thousands of pictures --  not good enough. 

Not good enough for some invisible, non-rectifiable reason that I do not really understand because it is numbers and math and technology.  Numbers. In the highest reading group, I nearly failed sixth grade over my non-existent math skills. I cheated to get through summer school and progressed on to the seventh grade. I am not proud of that. 

Not good enough reverberated through me today taking an ax swing at old wounds. It is not just my cherished but useless collection of photos, but all the things my heart has dreamed and not seen brought to fruition, including certain yearnings for my adult children, and restorative work in developing nations. Hope deferred, over and over again. Pain.  

Inadequacies lurk beneath my surface— not good enough to make everything all right for those I love. Outcomes I was never meant to control. Things I cannot see or understand this side of the veil. 

Can what God brings to fruition be enough to satisfy me? In truth, I need to find my satisfaction in Christ alone, not in the realization of all I desire. I have seen many well-meaning posts proclaiming, “I am enough!” I am not enough. I am not near enough. What I am however, is beloved, and in God, doors and opportunities open for me well beyond the sum of my strengths, likability, intellect or resources. 

He is enough. In the midst of recognition there are and will always be ways I cannot measure up, things my good heart cannot resolve, today He has reminded me in Him I am everything needed anyway. 

Join me in prayer? 

Father, Jesus, Holy Spirit, 
You alone are worthy, our God of mercy and grace Who invites us into Your inner sanctuary for communion. Open palms before You, we surrender to You once again all outcomes, unresolved crises, all the ways life screams at us about our inadequacies. We declare it is in our weakness Your strength is on full display. Your power is made perfect in our weakness as we yield to You, and draw near in utter dependency. We declare Your grace is sufficient; You are enough, and that is enough for us, in Jesus’ Name.

Once again I had a conversation with a mother of a child with a diagnosis. Her son is now a young adult, and wants nothing to do with the church. He has hidden disabilities and was considered a behavioral nightmare throughout his childhood years.

Predictably, his mother shared how she is still dealing with the vestiges of bitterness left over from fielding the judgments of her peers and leaders from church... judgements against her son, and judgements against her parenting.

"Dealing with the judgment was almost as hard as dealing with my son!"

It's true. I experienced the same dynamic during those difficult years. It's a lament shared by many parents raising children with hidden disabilities.

​I want to remind the church of a few truths.

Christ died for us while we were sinners. (Romans 5:8) It's easy to have vision for "good people" to come to Christ. But the truth is, God doesn't just come for really nice, well adjusted people. He came for all of us, even those of us who are dreadfully broken, and emotionally unhealthy, and egads, even those of us who may parent poorly. So even if every single negative assumption you have made about my parenting is true, I am the object of God's attention, affection, compassion and love. As such, I should be yours too.

Christ Himself, the One who never sinned, didn't come into the world to condemn it. He came so that through Him, the world might be saved. (John 3:17) The focus is on offering a nail scarred hand up. Jesus came to destroy the works of the enemy, and you share Christ's mandate. (1 John 3:8)

Among other things the works of the enemy include marginalization, exclusion, the voice of accusation, diminishment and demoralization sown into the lives of entire families coping with hidden disabilities.

How will you serve to offer a hand up and destroy the works of the enemy?

I have both friends and family with adopted children, and I understand that these precious wee ones are loved with the same fierceness as I love my own biological children.  But my friend raising her adopted child with paranoid schizophrenia mentioned recently that she does not have accusatory Mommy guilt. Sometimes Guilt attaches like a leech in hidden fleshy places, draining away parental confidence by injecting lies of personal culpability for the suffering of our progeny. That’s difficult enough. 

But then there are those who make assumptions about our mental health, and accuse us as parents raising biological children with hidden disabilities. For instance, I was enjoying a new friend a few years ago, a godly woman whom I respected. I am a professional level intercessor, meaning I get paid to pray for individuals and corporations, a job I immensely enjoy. God began giving me “downloads” daily to pray for my friend, a new experience outside of my employment. Although those who know me well, love me and consider me stable and emotionally healthy, she assumed I was obsessive compulsive by my attentive faithful intercession. Our relationship quickly crashed and burned. 

Not only was I misunderstood, but I was misunderstood in such a way as to emphasize in a searing way the pain my daughter feels routinely. My imaginary mental health issue made me an “unsuitable” friend for a “mature” Christian woman. God help us. They will know we are Christians by our love, remember? 

I’m trying to teach my children to rise above the stigma and reject the shame offered by society. In retrospect, perhaps it’s not such a bad thing to be considered guilty by association if it gives me the opportunity to stand by my children in solidarity. 

A safe gathering place of friends who understand