Book Review: Bronner: A Journey to Understand by Sherri Burgess

Bronner: A Journey to Understand

Sherri Burgess

New Hope Publishers

Released January 2016

*I am not a professional book reviewer, but I love to write and when a new book particularly touches me I like to post a review here. *

I had to catch my breath before I could write a review of this wonderful book. I've read several works written by grieving parents over the years. My own family experienced two such losses and so I read these books from time to time to see how others process so terrible an event as a child passing. This, however, is no ordinary "grieving parent" book.

I have read books that obsessed for endless chapters about Heaven, in an effort by the author to draw comfort from the fact that their child now resides there.

I have read books that were on the verge of dabbling in the occult with their repeated claims of signs and sightings and "God nods" that somehow signified that their lost loved one was literally making their presence known on this plane.

But until reading this book, I had not read someone who rushed headlong into the awesome and terrifying truth that this is a fallen world, and the God whom we love and confess, the God whom we trust and obey, is the same God who can permit something so tragic because it is part of His greater plan. Harder still is facing that truth and somehow believing that He is no less good and loving that He was before the tragedy struck.

Sherri Burgess has done a masterful job of expressing the immense pain that she and husband Rick and their family experienced that dreadful January night. But beyond that, Sherri has dug deep into the scriptures to offer the hope and comfort that only those who truly trust God will know. When Paul speaks of the "Peace that passes understanding..." he is not referring to some mystical numbness that overtakes your devastated and shattered heart. He is talking about the deep, under-the-surface peace that comes from knowing somewhere in your soul that even this is somehow part of God's plan. The Burgesses lived it. They still live it. This is a story about the home-going of a precious child, but also of the dreams, plans, visions and hopes that are always wrapped up in our children. It's about arms that ache for a hug that doesn't come, ears that listen for a voice that has fallen silent, and a special place in the heart of a mom and dad that is for now filled only with memories and yearning. Thankfully it's also about the truth that those disappointments and sorrows are not eternal.

Sherri and Rick's story is breathtaking in it's pain and also in it's strength. Yes, God has granted them the peace that passes understanding, but He also granted them the Faith to say "It is well with my soul" even when the world is crumbling.

Beyond all this. Beyond the masterful way Sherri relates this story and recounts every painful step on the trail of tears and healing, there lies the fact that she is a masterful theologian. I have a Bachelors degree in Religion and I am beginning seminary this spring, I love the Word and have a deep respect for those who truly know how to "Rightly divide the Word of Truth." Sherri is amazing in her depth and breadth of biblical knowledge. One of the reasons I shy away from these books is because so frequently they contain so much terrible theology. This book is the opposite. This book is truth. It's not just for those who have experienced loss -because in the end, who hasn't- it's for those who know that life IS loss...but to be with Christ, both here on earth and in eternity, is truly gain.

Thank you Sherri and Rick for having the courage to walk back down that dreadful path and share this story with us all.

If you struggle with loss -whether of a child or a parent or sibling, or simply the loss of your plans and dreams- I cannot recommend this book highly enough. 

Craig

Open Letter to Cam Newton

I detest the whole “Open Letter” thing. It’s become passé and overwrought. But, since this is playing out on the national stage I thought I would give it a go.

     Mr. Newton

         I’m writing this to you as a result of your recent comments regarding your behavior after the Super Bowl on Sunday. I have a problem with your behavior, and with your continued sulking and pouting and so, since you played this out on national TV, I thought I’d respond publicly as well.

You need to grow up.

This is life, kid. People lose big games. They lose much more. They lose jobs. They lose houses. Dreams die before ever getting off the ground. Parents lose children at a young age and never get over it. Young couples try and try and never are able to have children.

The love of your life dies too soon, or decides they don’t love you anymore and they leave you suddenly. This is life. This plays out thousands of times a day and the people who face life after disaster have to suck it up, pick up the pieces and soldier on. This is a hell of a lot more important than the Super Bowl.

Your defenders continue to say “Unless you have walked in his shoes, you can’t judge him. You don’t know what it’s like to fail with 150 Million people watching.” Actually Cam…I know something even more heartbreaking. Sure, your loss took place on a worldwide stage. But half of the onlookers were cheering for you. They love you and wanted you to get up and win the fight. It was not to be this time, and they love you regardless. After the game, you pouted, sulked, whined, growled, and finally stalked off like a petulant child, who was just told “No!” for the very first time.

You know what is worse than losing a battle in front of millions of fans? You know what hurts more than your dreams dying in public view?

It’s when your dreams die and not a soul notices or cares.

You want to know how I know? Because I’ve been there.

When the economy collapsed in 2008 I lost my career. The industry I worked in vanished. I was 45 and could not find a job. I lost my home. With that I lost my pets, my ability to have my daughter on weekends anymore. (Thankfully, her mom and I are divorced and so her mom still had a place to live.) I lost my sense of accomplishment and worth. I felt like dying.

And nobody noticed.

Precious few people cared how I was doing, or asked about where I was staying. I lived in my car, showered at the county rec center and nobody noticed. Every single night for the first two years I lived like this. Every single night I wanted to give up. That is tragic. Not losing a stupid football game and then whining about the questions they ask you, or the fact that you could hear your opponent’s statements from the other room.

Life is tough and nobody cares how you feel about things. You put your head down and pick yourself up and do better. And if you are a real man…you do it with dignity.

I tried to do exactly that. I was homeless. I literally slept in a Volvo 850 that I would hide behind a church. It hurt. It hurt more than this loss you just experienced ever could.

I cried myself to sleep some times because I love my daughter and I was worried about how this would affect her. I worried that maybe it was never going to change. I wondered how I could ever change it. But all the while, I tried facing it with dignity because –while you had millions of people watching you falter- I had only one. My daughter. But she was the only one that mattered Cam, and so I endured this battle with dignity because I knew I was setting an example. I wanted to pout, I wanted to scream, and I wanted to bark at every stranger who walked across my path. But instead I did what I could to hide the fact that I was homeless and I faced it all with dignity.

You need to learn what that word means and what it looks like.

You need to apologize to the world for sulking and pouting and making the whole event about you. You need to stiffen your back, face your failings and shortcomings, and have some dignity and some humility. Humility is not the same as humiliation. Jesus was humble. Einstein was humble.

I can deal with your exuberance and your dancing and your dabbing and your youthful ridiculousness. But I can’t sit by while people defend you on the grounds that I have never failed in the public eye. I’ve done something far more painful.

I failed alone.

You drove home to your nice estate and your nice life and your adoring fans. I had a beat up old car and a sleeping bag. You will have another chance next fall. It took me almost six years to get another chance and rebuild my life.

I didn’t have time to sulk. I went back to school and finished my bachelor’s degree…while still homeless. I stayed active in my daughter’s life, while still homeless. I started a business because I still couldn’t find work…while still homeless.

In all that time, I was beaten, I felt defeated, I was depressed, I was sad, and I wondered if things were ever going to change.

But I behaved with dignity.

My daughter was watching. And whether 150 million additional people had been, or if I endured all that alone with only her eyes seeing me…I HAD to behave with dignity.

Manhood is tough. Adulthood is tough. Responsibility is tough. Your profession affords you the easiest life imaginable. Football is hard work. I get that. But you are well paid for your efforts and it affords you a dream lifestyle.

Almost no one else has that benefit. Most of us struggle in anonymity, wondering if anyone cares at all. Most of us have no resources to rebuild after loss, so we work multiple jobs and sometimes…we sleep in cars and finish our degree and hope that somehow we get that second chance.

That’s what being a grown-up is. It’s time for you to be one. You are 27. That’s not “young and immature” that’s a full-grown man. Suck it up, buttercup. This world, the league, these fans, your opponent, the press…they owe you nothing. Everything you have and everything you will gain is because of the fame and opportunity that football provided you. You have the opportunity to live a life that almost every other soul on this planet only dreams of. You have NOTHING in this world to whine about.
I think you are a good man. I enjoy the fun you have and the way you seem to "get-it" that the fans are the reason you play this game. I genuinely like you. So this doesn't come from hate.

Next time, take your lumps like a man. Answer the questions, smile when it hurts, and be gracious. Because if you can’t lose with grace, you will not win with grace. There are lots of people who would trade places with you and they’d be gracious and dignified all along the way.  Time for you to do the same.

Jerry Falwell Jr. was right. My take...

*Note: I'm a Liberty graduate, a Liberty dad, and a Liberty employee. These words are MY OPINION and not reflective of LU as an institution. 

So last Friday, Jerry Falwell Jr. made a short statement about concealed carry permits and eligible students, and staff carrying on campus.

…and the whole world done lost it’s mind.

In the wake of yet another terrorist attack by peaceful Muslims, we were instantly force-fed more gun control rhetoric. The solution, to liberals, is to remove all guns (That is, all guns that you can find and confiscate, ignoring the fact, of course that you can’t possibly ever remove all guns) leaving only criminals to possess guns. The problem is that, in these shootings…it’s already a criminal who had the gun. Legally or not, he used it in a criminal method.

So the liberals say we should further disarm the populace in order to prevent mass shootings. Hmmm. Let’s look back at the mindset of these folks, shall we? These are the same people who hold that the way to produce better parents is to kill babies.

…Liberals lost they ever-lovin’ minds.  

These are the same people who want to take away guns because of shootings. But then, these are people who think the way to decrease the debt is to spend more money. Liberals aren’t logical to begin with, but I digress.

The point is, to restrict someone’s rights when it fits their narrative is just fine with them, but God forbid you try that with one of their sacred cows.

Back to last Friday…

Jerry Jr. stated what every one of us thinks already, i.e. the only slim chance you have in the event of a terrorist shooting is to return fire. Or as Clyde, the one-armed deputy from the classic movie “Unforgiven” so eloquently stated: “Well I just don’t want to be killed for lack of shooting back.”

Neither do I.

So my boss said it in a way that we all feel in our hearts anyway, but in a politically correct world run amok, nobody has the nads to say it. “If those Muslims ever come here, we need to be able to fire back.”

Those Muslims…

That’s the term that has people losing their hair. Gee, Einstein, there was a mass shooting in California the day before, you think maybe he was referring to THOSE Muslims? Of course he was, but if you admit that, you have nothing left to be worked into a froth over so you can’t scream at Jerry. You literally have to TRY to see his words as “hate” and “bigotry” for them to add up to that. I never batted an eye when he said what he said, so you can see why I was mystified by the uproar.

But why should I have been surprised? This is, after all, what liberals do. They wait for one word and seize it and redefine it and push it down your throat until you suddenly see the word as something new…and dangerous. Don’t believe me? Look at the word “hate” now. As soon as you disagree with someone, they start accusing you of “hatred” and your logical rebuttal has now become “hate speech” and your whole life is examined to see what else you hate. You are a bigot, You are intolerant. If you disagree with the president, it can only be because you are a racist. These days you don’t dare disagree with a black man over anything because you might be labeled a racist forever.

Your favorite baseball player had better be Willie Mays and not Mickey Mantle and you had better roll your windows down and move to the rhythm whenever some 17 year old pulls up next to you with Kanye shaking the trunk lid of his lowered Honda Civic.

You better not even be a NASCAR fan because “racing” sounds close enough to “racist” these days.

Yeah, okay I’m adding my typical Yankee snark to this to make my point, but seriously…I’m not that far off and you know it.

Jerry Jr. didn’t say anything that anyone else wasn’t thinking and feeling and all these hurt feelings and gasping liberals are simply reacting in accordance with the company line. As Scrooge said, “An ant is what it is, and a grasshopper is what it is…”

And libs are what they are.

But there is another group that attacked President Falwell and that group is really where my wrath is aimed. The Neo-Evangelicals.

All I’ve read over the last three days was one limp-wristed, pasty-faced pansy / pastor (or “navigator” or “spiritual path guide” or whatever the heck else they call themselves except PASTOR these days) after another, attacking Jerry and flaying him open as a hateful, anti-Jesus. “Jesus would not hate!” They proclaim, ignoring the fact that Jerry never said he hated anyone. Jesus said to turn the other cheek. Jesus never resisted the brutality of the crucifixion.

Correct…except Jesus came here for the explicit purpose of dying for my sins. I was not born with the same purpose and before you attack me for ignoring the command to “take up my cross…” you’d better understand that the cross Jesus spoke of in that verse was not necessarily the cross of physical death. It was death to self, and to the things you elevate above Jesus in your life. 

You Bible wizards forget the truth that Jesus was the sacrificial lamb, once. He rose from the dead as a King and his next appearance, as told in revelation, will find him riding on a horse with a sword coming out of his mouth (symbolism depicting his commanding an army) leading a charging army and killing everyone who stands against him. Yeah…it’s in Revelation 19: “11: I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and wages war. 12 His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. 13 He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. 14 The armies of heaven were following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean.  15 Coming out of his mouth is a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. “He will rule them with an iron scepter.” He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. 16 On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.

Call me crazy but that’s not some glaze-eyed, sissy-boy Jesus who sways back and forth at the latest Matt Redmon song. He’s not hip, and trendy, and wearing cool clothes and whining on his blog about social injustice in Poopistan. He comes riding on a fearsome horse, leading the charge, commanding an army with words of death.

That, my friends, is also Jesus.

That’s the “gentle baby meek and mild.” The same man who wept over Lazarus, got so angry at church money-makers that he made himself a whip and beat them violently and then turned over their tables. Remember when “Karl” found out his brother was killed by John McClain in “Diehard?” Remember when he flipped the desk over and said “I want blood!” Yeah…that’s pretty much Jesus in the temple courtyard that day.

Jesus was no pacifist. He was here for a specific time and for a specific purpose but his history throughout eternity is one of power, authority, and, sometimes, force.

Jesus does not hate Muslims. But Jesus does hate murder. He hates when families are torn apart by terrorist attacks at community centers. He hates the collective grief of 3000 people on 9/11. He hates murder of those four servicemen in Chattanooga.

Jesus also dislikes stupidity. How many times did he ask his disciples “Do you still not get it?” Jesus commands us to take care of our families. Paul wrote that if a man does not provide for his family he is worse than an infidel. Provision includes safety and protection. If you don’t want to carry a firearm, good on ya. But if we do have to answer for our deeds, I think that will include answering for being purposefully reckless.

Evil is here folks. Islam is the place where it lives and where it is nurtured. Does that mean all Muslims are embracers of evil? Of course not! It does mean that they all embrace a culture that embraces evil, which puts them one step away at best. The problem is I can’t tell which ones intend me harm and so I have two options…rid myself and the country of all Muslims –which would be unfair to truly peaceful Muslims- or prepare myself for the worst case scenario.

That I must do.

I am a dad. I have a daughter on this campus, besides being an employee and an alumni. I have to think about her safety all the time. She’s already at just about the safest place I could imagine for her college years. I have to do whatever else I need to do to ensure she gets through it all. In this world, maybe that includes carrying a gun, and, sadly, it includes being suspicious of anyone from certain groups. Suspicious. Not hateful. Not bigoted. Suspicious. Wary. Cautious.

As a Christian, I have to admit…it hurts to say those things. It hurts. Nobody wants to go around suspicious of anyone else. We all want peace. We want diverse friendships and cultural patchwork quilts…blah blah blah. But, I fear, there is no Arabic version of Kumbayaah. We apparently can’t all just get along. That’s reality, and it’s life and death now.

Jerry Falwell Jr. only said what realists already knew…that the threat is contained within Islam (notice I did not say the threat IS Islam…not yet anyway) He said what real people think in a way REAL people say it. Not couched and politically correct and sparing of everyone’s feelings. It is what it is.

You hipster theologians who think that having a pair is tantamount to being some hateful Neanderthal, I have one last parting gift for you. This is the real world now and you live in it. Jesus called us to die to HIM…not to Allah. Turning the other cheek means giving someone one more chance to make it right. Jesus did not call us to be chai latte sipping girl-boys, wearing skinny jeans and loafers with no socks while hiding our emasculation behind some faux-lumberjack beard.

He called us to be Davids. Men after God’s own heart, who snatched lions by the hair of their mane and charged headlong at giants with stones and slings and who lopped of that bugger’s head once we knocked him out! David wrote poetry and songs…some of which begged God to smash out the teeth of his enemies and bash their baby’s heads against rocks. David was a man. He had a temper. He got pissed sometimes.

If this picture bothers you…take it up with God. He is, after all, the one who loved that manly man so much that he made him the progenitor of the Savior himself. Ecclesiastes teaches us that there IS a time to kill and a time not to. There IS a time for harsh, often violent responses to humanity. That’s in the Bible too, along with the Beatitudes.  

Live with this, and more importantly…let ME live with this without calling me less of a Christian than you are. Get yourself a pair, bro!

Or to quote the late, great Dale Earnhardt…

“You’d better tie some kerosene rags around your ankles so the ants don’t crawl up your legs and eat your candy a**!”

That’s how I see it.

Web Page for my Carpentry Company

While I still work full time at Liberty University, I have returned to carpentry as a means to augment my income. (Daughters are expensive!)
Here is the web page I created for my business. Please share!

http://decksbycraig.blogspot.com/

A Playground in The Rubble. Trusting God when it's hard to trust God

A couple of weeks ago, Greta Van Susteran posted a picture on her Facebook page. It was a picture of Yemeni children, happily playing amid the bombed-out rubble that used to be their town. Greta remarked that she found it amazing that children can be so resilient, and able to find some measure of joy in the midst of absolute destruction.

The picture is here:

I was moved as well. I instantly thought about some of my favorite quotes from Brennan Manning, one of my favorite Christian authors, and a man who was well aware of the necessity of childlike faith. In Brennan’s book Ruthless Trust, He teaches about what it means to be childlike in our faith. I believe the photo above illustrates this perfectly. Brennan wrote:

 “Childlike surrender and trust, I believe, is the defining spirit of 

authentic discipleship. The supreme need in most

  

of our lives 

is often the most overlooked: an

  

unfaltering trust in the love of 

God no matter what goes down.

 

I think this is what Paul taught 

when he wrote in Philippians 4:13, "There is nothing I cannot 

master with the help of the one that gives me strength."

These are hard words to live by, and a difficult standard to bear. It’s hard to trust. It’s even harder to trust like a child trusts. Think about that. My daughter is seventeen now and well aware –too aware in my opinion- of the brittle, dangerous state of the world she is growing up in. She stresses over the news as I do. But when she was little, she didn’t have a care in the world. She had a dad who loved her immeasurably, who provided for her every need and almost every desire. She had a wonderful home in the country, two dogs she raised from puppies, a cat, a pony, a garden, sunshine, peace, contentment. Her life was never something she needed to give thought to. She could focus on just being a little girl, enjoying the love of her mom and dad (albeit in separate homes) and finding wonder and amazement in the everyday happenings of the world around her.

But she is an adult now. She has seen her daddy’s life implode because of the economy, she has watched her mom’s bad choice in remarriage explode in violence and terror until she finally escaped it by moving with me to Virginia. She has seen me rebuild on far less than I made in my heyday as a mortgage lender. She worries about the prices in the grocery store. She almost never asks me for clothes or shoes or basic necessities without the look of concern on her face, worried that I won’t have enough, or that I will have to go without so that she can have something.

Her childhood –and resulting child-likeness- ended prematurely in 2008 when my world collapsed. Around that same time, her mother’s husband began to reveal what kind of monster he really was and fear replaced her innocence.

My daughter has not been a child in five or six years now. That is heartbreaking for me in ways I cannot describe to you. I long for the days when only my word was needed to calm what few fears she held in her heart. When she never gave a thought to “'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?” (Matthew 6:31) When she fell to sleep at night, exhausted from a day of happiness, play, learning, excitement, safety, and deep abiding joy.

Now she is often restless at night. She worries, She frets. She has retreated into the safety of introversion and she has built walls around her to prevent anyone else from letting her down and hurting her.

As a dad it breaks my heart into tiny fragments. She is missing so much of the world around her simply because she is so afraid to drop her guard and see the joy that still remains in this world.

Morgan and I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. On any given clear day, the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounding this region is stunning. Most evenings are ushered in with the most breathtaking sunsets I have seen in my fifty-two years. I work at the largest, most dynamic Christian University in the world. She has opportunity beyond anything she could have imagined and could have ever had back in Nashville.

Yet she only sees the risk. She only notices how she is going unnoticed.  She worries and frets and has scant few people to talk about it with. She is lonely by choice, because in loneliness and isolation there is, at least, safety. Nobody can hurt you if you never give them the chance to. And so she is torn between wanting to make friends and have relationships and open up about her life, and the dread of being wounded and hurt again. She just wants to be a kid again.

Like all of us.

I am the same as my daughter. Five years of brokenness and homelessness, and rejection and isolation left me hardened in ways I never was before. I was always a gregarious people-person, who enjoyed just being around other people. I excelled in my former career, not simply because I was a great mortgage man, but because I loved helping folks and seeing their dreams come true. I love solving problems for people and bringing happiness if I can.

But five years of failure and disappointment and rejection –especially the rejection- hardened a side of me. It drained my optimism and emptied me of my joy. And sadly…it all but exasperated my trust.

Just as my daughter began to have problems trusting that her dad would always have answers, and always be able to do what he had done, so I have those same problems.

With God.

I seldom pray for myself. I pour my heart out for my daughter, for my co-workers, my friends, my family. But almost never for me. I never sit back in the arms of a loving, doting Father and give Him my worries and my fears and the troubles of my soul.

Jesus said “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe God, believe in me too” (John 14:1)

He also warned about “People will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken.” (Luke 21:26) People losing heart because of the world disintegrating around them. I know I am. I am ashamed to admit it, but I lost my childlike trust years ago. I stopped “casting all my cares upon Him, because he cares about me” (I Peter 5:7)

I stopped asking Him for the answers first, and then trusting Him enough to not try fixing it myself.

First I stopped trusting, then I stopped asking altogether. I started seeing the devastation around me, and not the power of the Father who is above all this. I saw the rubble of my life and I only lamented the destruction.

And yet, little Yemeni children can make a playground in their rubble…

And so must I. I was talking with a co-worker about this over the last few weeks. The stress and concern and worry of just being a dad, and trying to be a provider and a protector, and a wise man and a good employee, and a friend, and in his case, a husband. We talked about how demanding this is and how hard it is for men to say “I don’t know the answer…will have to trust God.” For me, that is almost weakness. I am supposed to know. I am supposed to have the answer. I am supposed to be the rock in the storm. I can’t seem to do that when I am admitting I am (sometimes) none of those things and that I can only “pray about it.”

It’s not that I don’t trust God. It’s that I was born and raised to feel that I am still supposed to do something. Prayer and trust are great, but rolling up my sleeves and doing something…That’s what a man does. That’s what a dad does.

If my daughter applied that logic to me I would be hurt. If she refused to trust me to provide, if she refused to see my protection or my provision, I would feel like a failure. Yet I do that to God daily.

Fourteen years ago, I raced across town on the morning of September eleventh, to pick her up from her pre-school. Just like all the other parents that morning, I was scared. I was worried. I was wondering where we would really be safe.

I walked into the daycare center and there she was…playing happily with all the other kids who were as unaware of the world’s condition as she was in that moment. She had no idea that her whole life had just changed. She had no reason to. There was rubble in New York and Washington DC and in a field in Pennsylvania, but all she and her friends did was play.

I have to learn that. I have to get to that point again. I have to drop my self-consuming demands that I “fix this right now” and just let Him work. I need to do what I can and then let Him do what He is going to do. I need to start enjoying this life. I need to more frequently stare at the sunset on the mountains. I need to spend more time hearing the sound of birds, enjoying the job I have and the friends I have here. More time listening to that amazing voice God has gifted my little girl with.

I need to give Him the time to work these things out. I need to remind myself that He is always in control. Always. I need to remember that the problem comes not because He is not in control, but because I don’t let Him control it. Jesus said He came to give us joy. I need return to where I spend more time with Him.

…and let Him make a playground in my rubble.

What Abraham Saw...(A birthday message)

Today I turned 52.

I have to introduce this entire story by telling you right up front…I hate my birthday. Absolutely, positively, despise the day. I try my best to ignore it and hope to God everyone else does. I hate the end of summer and with my birthday coming at exactly that time I hate it even more.

I don’t remember when I started feeling like this. Probably in high school, but I pushed it down inside because I didn’t understand some things. I had questions that would not have answers for a few more years.

This is going to sound like sour grapes, but that is not my intention. I decided yesterday to write this in the hopes that it might help someone else. I learned a valuable lesson at age twenty-nine and that’s the real reason I am writing these thoughts tonight.

The beginning is where we need to start.

52 years ago today, September 7, 1963, I was born in a neighborhood in Philadelphia to a 20 year old mother. My father was in basic training and by my first Christmas, would be neck deep in the hell that was Vietnam. They never married, and after he served two tours, and won numerous medals and commendations, he came home to find the mother of his now-four-year-old son was about to be married. Not much time was allowed for discussion or consideration. The offer was made to let this man raise me (an offer much more about eliminating another potential rooster from the hen house, and not at all about any desire to have me as a son) and my father took the deal.

That’s it. Plain and simple. I don’t pretend to grasp it nor do I desire to sugar coat it. I couldn’t have done it. I stopped trying to figure it out, about five years ago. It simply is what it is.

But it hurt. It hurt then and it hurts now. There was no bond between my mother’s husband and me. Being so young, and never having really met my father, I was told my stepfather was my father and without any prior knowledge…I had no reason to question it.

Except when I got older and there was no connection. In fact there was a connection vacuum. There could not have been a more opposite person in the world to me than her husband. He hated everything I loved. We had nothing in common. Even the scant things we did together, were more a means to an end. If he couldn’t get her permission to go deer hunting, or to the drag races he would simply take me along. That way she’d say yes. And so those two activities were all we ever did together, and when we did do them, it really wasn’t together.

The bond was noticeably absent especially at my birthday. My brother and sister had big parties, sometimes taking all weekend long. I remember only one party, my sixteenth. It took me a long time to understand why my birthday was never celebrated like my other siblings (his natural children with my mother) was. That is the real point to this story. It happened like this…

I was 21 when I found out about my real father. I could write for days about what that did to me. In this tech-driven world in which we live, I will explain it simply by saying this: it was like someone reached into my computer and pulled out the hard drive. I was left wondering who I was and why I was here and who really cared, and what family was I really a part of?

I went into my twenties with these questions growing louder in my ears and yet no answers. I was twenty nine when the answers came. And that’s what I want to share now.

I was attending Praise Assembly in Newark, Delaware. I had been there for about a year or so and I have to say, it was about the best church experience I have ever had. There were a lot of my school friends attending Praise back then and it was comforting seeing familiar faces right away as soon as I made that my church home.

One of those familiar faces was my friend Pam Owensby. I had known Pam since High School, having met at a summer camp. I knew her sister as well. Pam is one of the genuinely nicest, sweetest people you’d ever want to meet. She had already been married to her husband Fulton (“Fully”) for several years by the time I started going to Praise Assembly. As I reconnected with Pam and some others, and as we’d begun catching up with where our lives were by that point, I found out that Pam and Fully had been struggling to have children. It was something the entire church had been praying for on their behalf and, having reconnected, I was praying for them as well.

One day, the miracle news was announced…Pam was expecting twins. The church was thrilled. 400 or so people prayed and trusted and believed all through the difficult pregnancy. There were times when the twins surviving until birth was tenuous. But at last they arrived. A boy and a girl. Kelsey and Ryan. They were premature and it would be almost five months before the church family would actually get to see them. And that is where God began to teach me the lessons about my own birth, and my own special place in His world.

The day Kelsey and Ryan were dedicated was an incredibly special day for Praise Assembly. Pam and Fully and their families were beaming and happy. When Pastor Walters invited “anyone who wanted to pray” to come to the altar and gather around the twins and pray for them, at least half the congregation responded.

I sat in the back with tears flowing. Not tears of joy for my friends, as should have been the case, but tears of pain. I saw the joy on the faces at the arrival of these children. I saw Pam and Fully’s happiness. I saw two babies who were so beloved. So desired, So anticipated. And so cherished.  Then I saw my own life. I saw a single mom and a dad somewhere in a place half a world away; both scared and both fighting for their lives in their own way. I saw no smiling faces at my arrival. No one who was happy. No lives changed for the better.

I began to weep openly at the back of the church. I started to ask God, “God was anyone happy when I was born? Was anyone excited? Was I a good thing for anyone at all?

The pain was tearing at my heart. Amidst the sounds of joy emanating from the front of my church, I was feeling pain and hurt and emptiness. Then I heard God…

It was so simple it startled me. I asked Him again; “God was anyone happy about my birth?

His answer came in the form of one line from a song. One of my favorite songs from Rich Mullins:

“Sometimes By Step.” The line says “Sometimes I think of Abraham. How one star he saw had been lit for me…”

That was it. That’s all it said. I sang it to myself through sobs. Then I heard God whisper a verse in my ear. It is Psalm 147:3-4 “He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds. He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.”

In the next instant, he reminded me of Genesis 15:5 “Then the LORD took Abram outside and said to him, "Look up into the sky and count the stars if you can. That's how many descendants you will have!"

Suddenly it was coming together. I saw Abraham as he tried –if only for a second- to count the stars. I saw God as He smiled at Abraham’s temporary foolishness. And it all came together.

I heard God, deep in my soul, asking me a question. “Why do you think it says that I “know each star by name?” I’d wondered that myself. Counting them I get…He is God. He knows the number before he even created them. But why would he name them. A claim he repeats in Isaiah 40:26 “Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.”

Twice in scripture God tells us he names each and every star. Why? Because he made a promise to Abraham and he knew exactly how many stars would be needed to keep that promise. When God laid out the heavens on day four of creation, He already knew about me. He already knew I would one day accept the gift of his son. He knew I would choose the gift He offered and he set a star there so it would be lit on that night when Abraham saw a visible rendition of that promise.

I was a star that night.

Then God tied it all together. As moms and dads were celebrating their babies in the front of that church, for the first time, my Heavenly Father was celebrating me there in the back. I heard him speaking clearly now. “I placed that star there. I gave it a name. It’s not “Craig,” it’s the name by which you are known only to me. The name in Revelation 2:17. It’s the name I call you in my heart. The name I will call you in heaven one day. I longed for your arrival. I celebrated your birth by “dancing over you with singing and rejoicing.” I could not wait to be your dad.

I broke down in tears that day. Tears that are here now as I write this.

I don’t remind myself of this nearly enough. I needed to remind myself when I was homeless and broken and wounded. Sometimes I did. Sometimes when it was so cold that my tears froze to my cheeks, I looked out the window of the car I was sleeping in and saw stars and imagined that one of them “had been lit for me,” like Mullins wrote. But much of the time, I forgot this lesson. So I decided that I needed it this year. Things are difficult right now. My daughter is still adjusting to college life. I am still smarting from the damage of homelessness and loss. The relationship with my father has not changed. He does not budge. It causes difficulty with the rest of the family sometimes. It makes me feel “different” from them in a small but important way.

I needed to remember that there was a star place carefully in the heavens, thousands of years ago, and it was a placeholder for the promise to Abraham. It reminded God that I was coming, and once I got here it was a reminder that I was one of those promises.

My life has a plan. A plan that I have doubted more than trusted. A plan that I have resisted when surrendering to it would be so much easier. A plan designed by Someone I have not seen, but whom I know so well. There is a star out there, and If I will just look for it, I will be reminded again about the promise I am a part of. I was wanted. I was desired. I was longed for. There is a Father who sang and danced when I was born.

The same is true for you as well. You are not alone or unwanted in this world, no matter what this world will try to tell you. Whether you are living a full, rich, blessed life, or you are shivering in the darkness of homelessness as I was…God sees you, He sees your star, and he has a plan for your life. You matter to him. He knows you by name. A name only He knows.

Come as you are…

A Single Dad and his Single Arrow. A father sends his daughter off to college...

           

                                 “Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him. 

                              4 Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one’s youth. 
                                     5 Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them…”                                                                                  

                                     -  Psalm 127:3-5                                                           

Solomon wrote those words about 5000 years ago, or thereabout.

I have always loved the analogy of children being arrows. This makes their dad the archer of their souls. In Biblical times, an archer made his own arrows. He fashioned them from sometimes wild and unruly saplings. To get them to straighten and take shape, he soaked them in oil for weeks. Then he fastened them in a rack until they were as straight as pins. Then he carefully smoothed the surface, sanded it, shaped it and made it ready. He attached the fletching in the exact pattern he knew would be needed for the purpose he had in mind for those arrows. Some were for hunting. Some for warfare. Some for target practice. He knew the specific characteristics of each arrow and when he was finished with them, he marked them individually, so that anyone who came across one, would know it was his arrow.

This is rich with metaphor for parenting. I have only one child…only one arrow. I have spent seventeen years crafting her as best I could. I have shaped her, anointed her with the oil of my love, attention, wisdom and, especially, prayers. I have taken note to what her purpose is, and while I am not definitely, positively, certain yet, I know it will involve music and the arts. I know she will use those wondrous gifts of hers to communicate her heart, and the heart of Jesus to this world. Here's an example of her breathtaking talents: 

                               Morgan singing "Let it Die"

I have done my best to pick the right fletching (the feathers that keep an arrow flying straight) so that she would fly true and hit her targets. I did my best to leave my mark in her heart somewhere, so that when people see her, they know she is my daughter, that I spent these last seventeen years getting her ready, and that I am proud of her and she flies with my blessing.

It all came and went too quickly. Being divorced only made it go by faster and being homeless for most of the six years between 2008 and 2014 even more so. It was hard to do the job of being her dad while I was sleeping in a truck and going to college, and working, and trying to rebuild. But we made it together. It has been a joy to have her with me since May 2014 when we got to Lynchburg from Nashville and began this adventure.

Monday begins the hardest step for me yet.

Just as Morgan has been preparing as an arrow, so I have been preparing my skills as an archer. Throughout the years I have increasingly set her to flight toward ever more distant targets. I have given her a little more room to fly with each one, even as I blinked back tears while I drew back on my bow. I have prayed more for her than for anything in my life. I have studied my fatherly archery, I have begged God to make sure I aimed for the right target. I have held my shot when letting her go would have been easier.

Monday morning, I will send her off on the first really big flight, toward her first really big target. Monday she begins her life as a college freshman and I take another step back from her, and let her fly with more freedom.

She is beginning her studies here at Liberty University, my alma mater, and, for the next four years, her future.

Thursday afternoon I walked in the front door carrying her box of school books. I did not tell her I was bringing them home. I thought I’d surprise her. When she saw me come in, and saw the white “Barnes and Noble / College” logo, she broke into a big smile. I hadn’t seen this sort of smile from her in several years. She’s been through so much and she has lost faith in good things happening for her. She had been holding her breath on this college thing for months now. It took work, right up to the very end, getting all the paperwork done and all her records forwarded and especially paying for the portion of her education that I have to pay for. Working for Liberty, I get her tuition paid for, but I still pay fees, and buy her books etc. It adds up and we’ve been stretched since my car broke down and I’ve had to fix it.

Thursday night none of that was a factor. She was happy. She smiled and opened the box and carefully went through each book like it was sacred. She gets that from me. When I was homeless and finishing my degree through LU Online and studying in my car most nights, I would have my books shipped to a PO Box I was using in the Franklin Post Office. Each semester when my books arrived I would open them like I was opening the Ark of the Covenant itself. I still have every book from every class. I love to read, but I love books themselves. I love the shape and the feel. My daughter is like that as well.

She got her ID card on Friday and went to a freshman orientation, and ate in the dining hall, and walked around with the different perspective that comes from finally being here as a student, and not just as the daughter of a guy who works in the IT department.

This mountain is special. It’s almost sacred to me and to most of the alumni I went here with. Dr. Falwell used to tell us all the time that prayer moves mountains. But here at Liberty, the mountain does some moving of its own. You learn faith here. You learn heritage here. You leave a piece of your heart here and whenever you come back it reaches out to you and makes you feel complete somehow. This mountain was reshaped by the faith of a giant of a man, and somehow, the mountain does reshaping of its own on every student who comes here.

She is here for that now. It’s her turn.

My arrow is set against my bow once again. Monday, I’ll draw her back, bend that bow with all my might, try to see the target through tears, try to hold my hand steady while my heart breaks and races all at once.

And I’ll let her fly.

The targets get bigger from here on out. Farther away with every flight. One day, she’ll make the last flight from my bow. She’ll outgrow this archer. That day will be bittersweet, like this Monday will be.

I am so glad that the next target is Liberty. I am so glad I can set her to flight here, knowing that the other arrows she flies with come from the same careful archers, for the most part. I’m so thankful knowing that everyone here, from Jerry Falwell Jr. –our president- on down to my friend Vernon who is in janitorial, work here with one goal in mind: to help archers launch arrows, and help those precious arrows hit their targets.

A large part of my fatherhood is complete now. I did what I could, given the circumstances. I poured myself into her and held nothing back. In every storm, dark night or bright day, she knew beyond a doubt that her dad loved her. She knows she flies with my blessing, and with God’s.

…and now her flight begins.