MORNING FOG BURNED

Fiery reds and burnt oranges saturate the tangle of black branches out my kitchen window some early winter mornings. Nestled against the first foothill of the Blue Ridge mountains, sunsets are blocked by the six hundred foot rise behind us. But the sunrises! The pictures below were taken about an hour apart.  Thicker fog than my cell phone captured, the trees floated in a sea of white mist. An hour later I peeked out to a shimmering light show.

For the past five months I’ve felt like I’ve been lost in that  fog. Very difficult to see ahead. Adolescence is often a tough time for those on the autism spectrum, and Jonathan’s no exception. Boy, don’t we know it.  Days can seem an endless series of power struggles with a now exceptionally strong young man, requiring constant vigilance to prevent flinging dishes, snatching of food, and to decipher the nature of his agitation. Moments of contentment and smiles have been few and far between. 

We’ve had some relief in the form of an energetic young two day a week helper.  Pray for us - her living situation has changed, so her stay may be short lived. But we’re grateful. Jonathan has a terrific Daddy who also takes on more than his fair share of the load. But the unrelenting nature of caregiving is such that, without a Holy perspective and some absolute respite, the view becomes murky. Weariness can feed gnawing worry, even despair.

One particularly discouraging day, I found myself asking the “why” questions. The “what is the point” ones. Even a drive in the country after our walk didn’t lift my spirits. We concluded with a visit to the post office. Grabbing Jonathan’s hands to keep him from swiping objects off the counters. Pacing the walk outside instead of waiting in line. The kindness of the two postmasters, women who have become friends over the years, broke the dam to my tears, though. They took my payment and addressed the package for me. 

 Later that evening,  Mark Buchanan’s The Rest of God  arrested me with this thought-- one point of Sabbath rest is trust in God’s sovereignty.  (Sovereignty, in short, means that God orders the circumstances of our lives for His redemptive, loving  purposes and our ultimate benefit.) This “God is in control” mooring was slowly eroding. Not that God is threatened by my complaints, but what to do? Pastor Mark Buchanan’s suggestion:  thankfulness. 

  To “make God bigger” (Buchanan’s words) was my desperate need in this wearying worrying season. While my heart wasn’t exactly bubbling over with gratitude, I could genuinely thank Him for the sunrises. So I did.  Didn’t seem to have much to do with Jonathan, but they are really, really beautiful. And God made them. I recalled my delight as I beheld the transformed wonderland of crystalline, amber and rosy sunlight-suffused dew.

  I love the way Jesus uses nature, what we can see and touch, to help us fathom His transcendent truths. A few days after these pictures were taken, He did that for me.  I have a need to plan. To solve the problem (it’s why I like math.) The reality is, life with Jonathan does not respond to neat formulas. There will always be an element of unpredictability, of unknowing. Of fog. Those two photos juxtaposed reminded me that the sun was never absent. It was still giving off light in both. Still warming the earth. That the sun is shrouded from view makes it no less real or active.  

So it's OK to not know. To not see. To not understand. To trust in God’s unseen activity high above this fog is no less reasonable than to acknowledge the reality of the wind that caresses my cheek.  I know the sun and wind exist based on prior experience and the evidence of their activity. Branches sway. My body is warmed. Wind and sun are real.

 I’ve seen God’s activity.

Like the time my Mom felt led to pray intensely for my son Daniel five minutes before he and his friend careened off a 20 foot embankment, bounced and landed safely in the creek bed. Or my whispered prayer for a kind seatmate enroute to visiting my son after his second cancer surgery.  Just so happened the lady who sat next to me had a son with the same cancer who was doing fine twelve years later. The stewardess stopped by to tell her she was in the wrong seat. Oh, no she wasn’t. Or twenty-five years before Jonathan was born, when my one year diversion from music to a psychology internship landed me in a sheltered workshop for developmentally delayed adults. When the specialist called and said he had “bad news” and that it wasn’t too late for an abortion, my heart was prepared to welcome Jonathan. The boy that keeps me writing these blogs.  With Down Syndrome, on the autism spectrum. Or that God dropped Jonathan’s name in my heart before I knew it meant “Gift of God.”  

I’ve seen the evidence.

 So I can rest now. Knowing He’s high above the fog that surrounds me. And like that morning fog burned, when I least expect it, He astounds with glimpses of dazzling beauty.  I can trust Him. And I needn’t stumble, either. He gives me in his Word, a clear path. It is simple, really. Care for your son, God’s precious one. His plans are to prosper, not to harm me. (Jer 29:11)  I need not fear the future. He cares for the lilies of the field. Why not me? Why not Jonathan? 

When we walk out the door, Jonathan slips his hand into mine. He’s learned that even though he may not understand where we are going, with his hand in mine he is safe.  Lord, help me to be like him. Because I’m safe with you. And here I am again, full circle. The one who’s like a little child, leading me. To Your Kingdom. 

 Every time Jonathan takes my hand, I’m going to thank God now.  For a new reason. For reminding me to take His.