This week has been crazy. We’re getting ready for graduation and open house next weekend. The second time around isn’t so bad, but it’s a great reason to get things done around the house that need to be done. We’re operating is “Git-R-Done” mode.
Like cleaning, painting, and the other “normal” stuff that happens every spring at life on the Back Forty….planting garden, 4-H animals, tending these things while doing the “real stuff”of life like working and raising kids.
Tired has entered our vocabulary just a few time this week.
I love this kind of tired. There’s something meaningful in planning, preparing, “git-r-doning” that brings rest and peace to a soul at night. Getting things accomplished, seeing the fruits of your labor, and having things in order.
But one night this week, I went to bed early after doing nothing but working nine hours and bringing home Little Caesar’s Pizza. I was exhausted that day, mentally and emotionally.
Do you ever have days like that?
It’s one of the hazards of being a counselor. As I came home from a normal day counseling at an intermediate school, I walked and talked with God while my kids ate Little Caesar’s.
The kids I work with are heavy on my heart this week, but there’s so much more to it. Because their lives are normal for many families in our community, in your community. Kids who don’t know their dads. Kids who witness violence in their homes leaving them scarred and emotionally messed-up. Kids who understand their parent’s priorities don’t include them. Kids who are on the brink of making good choices or ones that will set them on a path for self-destruction.
I’ve come to believe one of the greatest powers in human connection lies in words of hope. Not false hope, but real hope.
Hope in choice.
Hope in what you can control.
Hope in seeing the good in a situation.
Hope in a future that is yet unwritten.
Hope in a God who is personal.
I sat in a meeting with a mother who broke down in front of three other adults. She had been strong and brave all year, but the restraining order she had against her child’s father told me much more. As she was leaving the administrator’s office, I took a risk, hugged her, and said, “God bless you.”
She sobbed more and clung to me like a life preserver.
The risk of compassionate words in that moment spoke truth to my soul.
We need each other.
The boy in my office cried because he’s not accepted by the Latinos and he’s not accepted by the whites. He’s mixed. He’s not accepted by his mom or his dad. A product of a sexual encounter, he doesn’t know family. He finally said through his tears, “I hurt. I don’t belong anywhere.”
Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere?
As I came home with Little Ceasar’s and put my cleaning clothes on, I longed for each child to know what “home” is. I longed for each adult walking through life with childhood scars to know what it feels like to belong, to be accepted. I long for each of us walking through life in difficult places to have someone reach out and say, “God bless you for where are at today. You’re a survivor.”
Let’s take a risk in caring, in sharing, in reaching out.
Let’s be the hand of Jesus and words of hope that give life to others.
Will you do that with me today?
Will you stop the busyness for just a moment to give a moment of life to another?
God bless you, my reader, for the places you have walked and have received hope for tomorrow.
If you are walking in hard places today, let me pray with you on your journey. You can email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
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