The Miracle Manifested Part Two

By Lori Freeland –

Quick Recap of Where is the Miracle?
I ask myself, what happened to The Miracle? A question I mulled a lot while Kyle suffered. What sin kept The Miracle away? What treatment did his doctors leave out? What did I do wrong? What did I miss? What prayers did I leave out? Why did Kyle suffer for four years before we got our lives back? Why did the sweet little girl in the hospital room next to ours go through three years of agony and never get her life back? We all ask these hard questions—controversial faith altering questions and God tells us, “…my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8 NIV).

What if The Miracle did occur and I missed it?

What if The Miracle had nothing to do with the end result?

And everything to do with the journey?

In the middle of Kyle’s battle with leukemia, my friend Robin and I were having coffee and talking about our kids and the worst thing that could happen to them. At the time, caught up in Kyle’s cancer, I immediately said, “death.”

She shook her head to disagree. “Eternal separation from God.”

Wow.

All I could think about revolved around Kyle’s life now. Here. With me. And what it would be like to live without him.

But what if my earthly perspective on suffering and death didn’t fit with God’s perspective on eternity? Wrapping my head around The Miracle in the journey seemed as impossible as stretching out my hand in Plano, Texas to touch my mother in Madison, Wisconsin.

What if God saw suffering like this—the life of one small, vulnerable child or one broken-hearted mother could impact the eternal lives of two people? Or four? Or forty?

What if The Miracle in the journey gave me a glimpse of God in a way I never would have seen? I am a new person. A different person. A better person in so many ways. And so is Kyle. What if I learned that trust came in different forms and brought unique blessings—one of them being my son’s relationship with Jesus and his life goal. After high school graduation this May, his heart’s desire is to go to nursing school and then work in pediatric oncology.

I need to re-examine my journey. The moments. The day by day. I need to stop looking for The Miracle at the end and open my eyes to search for it in the midst—the midst of pain, fear, frustration, and hopelessness.

That takes a special pair of eyes.

Eyes that I don’t have.

But I know where I can get them. God’s Word spills over with His perspective. His ways. His miracles. I believe the Bible when I am encouraged to, “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5 NIV). I hang onto to the promise that, “Blessed are those who find wisdom, those who gain understanding” (Proverbs 3:13 NIV).

What could it hurt to ponder The Miracle being in the journey rather than at the end of it? We’re going to walk the walk no matter what. If suffering, pain, and death must be part of that journey, anger and denial won’t change a thing.

But looking for The Miracle in the midst just might.

Where Is The Miracle? Part One

By Lori Freeland –

I follow a lot of CaringBridge sites.

If you are unfamiliar with this amazing cyber vision, check it out at www.CaringBridge.org. CaringBridge allows a family in medical crisis to post updates, prayer requests, and needs to a page that friends and family can access.

The sites I follow have catchwords like “children” and “oncology.” My rooting in the pediatric cancer community comes out of the four years our family spent battling leukemia with our oldest son, Kyle. Because we’ve tread our own rough journey, people send me CaringBridge links, ask me to write encouraging emails, and pray for their friends and family that are dealing with similar struggles. I consider their requests a privilege. The way I see it, if I can’t take something away from my stay in a very dark pit, what good are my experiences? Not letting Jesus use me would be a waste. I staggered through the journey for a reason. So did Kyle. And I wouldn’t give back the empathy, wisdom, or perspective that came out of that trek.

Here’s how this works for me. I go to the link and sign up to receive updates to my email. I read the journal entries and the family’s story. I pray for these anonymous kids until I know them and their parents—intimately. I join them on their journey—sometimes from a thousand miles away.

As I go about my own life—kids, homeschool, cleaning, laundry, activities—various updates load into my Inbox. I click on the updates and scan the latest news.

My heart breaks every single time.

These kids struggle with school and friend issues, unsuccessful and painful chemo treatments and surgeries, hair loss and mouth and skin sores, intense bone and muscle pain, and the desperate desire to just be “normal.” I’ve walked in those shoes. Fallen under the weight of Kyle’s agony. Lived the desperation to save my child—at any cost.

I’ve begged and pleaded for The Miracle in hopes of sparing the journey in favor of healing my child.

Many stories do not have a “happy” ending. Families dive into a dark pit where they breakdown, fall apart, and suffer right along with their child. Sometimes they get their lives back. Sometimes they don’t.

When the decline begins and the updates grow more desperate, my fingers hover over the Enter Key that will activate the link and I hesitate, knowing one day soon I will receive The News.

I relive the desperate hope, the deep need to believe in The Miracle. The pleas for The Miracle to come quickly. The anger when The Miracle fails to manifest.

I slump in my chair at the appearance of that last post listing interment arrangements. In lieu of a gift, please send a donation to the…

I ask myself, what happened to The Miracle? A question I mulled a lot while Kyle suffered. What sin kept The Miracle away? What treatment did his doctors leave out? What did I do wrong? What did I miss? What prayers did I leave out? Why did Kyle suffer through four years of hell before we got our lives back? Why did the sweet little girl in the hospital room next to ours go through three years of hell and never get her life back? We all ask these hard questions—controversial faith altering questions.

Here’s a new question: What if The Miracle did occur and I missed it?

God tells us, “…my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8 NIV).

Coming Next: The Miracle Manifested Part Two

Flames That Twirl

By Pam Kumpe –

Have you ever set a fire?

One summer, baton camp ended with flames, ashes and fire trucks.

I was in middle school and that summer my twin Mel and I joined several hundred other girls for a two-week stay at a college campus in the mountains of Arizona.

The daily schedule included classes of varying kinds for all levels and ages. We competed in small contests, learned new routines, and reunited with our friends from the summer before.

Our housing included dorms on the college campus and on opposite sides of the grounds in another set of dorms. Some of our best friends ended up across campus. My twin and I stayed in a dorm far away from them.

We wanted to be near them, so Mel and I took on the names of two girls who didn’t care where they slept. We then traded rooms via the fire escape.

We became Jennifer and Sally, the two girls from dorm G, while Jennifer and Sally became Pam and Mel, and they moved into our room in dorm T.

One day in the cafeteria, the worker asked the girls with tags, Pam and Mel if they were fraternal twins since they didn’t look alike. I had instructed them to say all the right things.

All week, no one caught on, not until the day everything went up in flames.

Our teacher had moved our group to the street for safety reasons, so if we dropped our fire batons, nothing burned up—at least in theory.

She, along with her assistants, soaked the wicks on the end of our batons in gasoline. We held them out in front of us as the ends were lit.

I have a knack for bumping, dropping, and creating mishaps—and this teacher had no idea how dangerous I might be to myself and others.

Then it happened, my right hand twitched. I looked up to the sky, and without thinking, I opted for a high toss. One quick toss and I’d catch it. But the baton sailed upward in a ball of fire and beauty twirls.

And never came down.

My baton got stuck on a limb of this giant tree and hovered over the class of girls. The flames on the end of my baton swept like a whirlwind of orange, consuming the leaves and tiny branches, and the tree burst into a ball of flames.

The homeowner rushed to the street. She screamed. I screamed. My sister screamed. The teacher screamed. A choir of panic set in and someone called the fire department.

After the fire trucks left and their water hoses doused the flames, my nightmare ended. Now all eyes were on me. I became the girl who started a fire at camp.

Talk about a horrible, no-good, very bad day.

Oh, and remember the real Jennifer and Sally, the girls who traded rooms with us? For some reason they didn’t want to be involved in our shenanigans anymore and we had to move back to our old dorm.

To make matters worse, the camp director caught wind of the fire, heard about our trading rooms and assuming new names. Yes, you guessed it, more scolding took place. Well, at least Mel was in on this one.

Before the director sent us on our way, he director shared how we had been candidates for campers of the week. Had been. Have you ever watched your day go up in flames? Have you wished to be someone else?

Well, I learned one thing from that fiery day—there’s always another day, another class, another opportunity to twirl, another toss to make. The key is to be you and remember there’s a God above who removes mistakes. He’s slow to anger, unlike that teacher I had at camp, and God is always compassionate toward me, unlike the director. And no matter if I cause the fire, or not, He is ready to lift me from the ashes.

Speaking of compassion, my twin and I did receive camper of the week at the closing ceremony—even though those few hot moments almost took our prize away.

By the time I attended high school, I’d become pretty good with the fire baton.

That is, until the night I caught the football field on fire—but not to worry, they didn’t need fire trucks this time.

Church vs. Jesus

By Janet Morris Grimes –

Church—as much a part of my life as brushing my teeth. There are few Sundays that I don’t recall being there. Walking in late, perhaps, but fulfilling my spot on the second pew, with pride.

Three years ago, a move to a state 10 hours away forced me to find a new church. But soon, I settled in to the front row, ready to worship on a weekly basis.

Attending church is a habit that can be viewed many different ways. Many people attend for the social interaction, the family atmosphere, the children’s or youth programs, the worship experience, or the motivational speaking.

I treasure each of those things.

It’s the magnetic pull of a face-to-face encounter with Jesus that makes me walk through those doors. I need to kneel at the cross, as if Jesus and I were the only two people in the room. I need to be held accountable for my actions, to let go of my doubts, to deepen my relationship. I need to be whacked upside the head with a different viewpoint, to change my way of thinking and in the process, continue to change my life.

I need my life to look much different, because I’ve centered it on Jesus, than it would on its own.

That is why I attend church.

But at times, I fear church, as an institution, becomes more focused on itself than on Jesus. With small groups, committees, events, programs, budgets, worship preferences, elder appointments, class schedules, potluck luncheons, food drives, and membership directories, it can be difficult to walk in the door and find Jesus.

And I should be good at this worship thing by now. Imagine what it might feel like to a newcomer, a visitor, the one who seeks God for the first time.

Church should always be about Jesus. Without His presence, the church can become a club for really nice people.

I know enough now to seek Jesus on a daily basis. I cannot depend on the church to do that for me. It is a personal relationship, seven days a week.

But never let it be said that church gets in the way of finding Jesus. I don’t want to argue worship preferences. I want to find Jesus. I don’t want to lament the change to a new service time. I want to find Jesus. I don’t want to criticize the pastor, I want to find Jesus.

It is only once we kneel together as one at the foot of the cross, that we find Jesus. Only then, can we go into the world and be the church to them.

The church is the body of Christ—a group of people learning to be more like Jesus. The church is not a building, an institution, or a social activity. Attending is not a ritual that we choose because our grandmothers did it for 90 years before us. And it’s not a club for really nice people.

But never let it be said that church gets in the way of finding Jesus. Because when this happens, it may be time to find a new church.

Who’s the Enemy?

By Kathi Woodall –

The Civil War was by far the bloodiest conflict our country has ever fought. Not only was the death rate the highest of any of our nation’s struggles, but it exceeded the sum of the deaths of all other American wars from the Revolutionary War through modern times. Although the methods of warfare contributed to the high death rate, one factor stands alone as the greatest cause of the phenomenal loss of life. Every drop of spilled blood was American blood. When the death tolls were counted, the distinction between “them” and “us” faded away. Whether the uniform was gray or blue, whether the flag was Union or Confederate, as brother fought against brother, they were all Americans.

Our family visited the site of the Battle of Fredericksburg in Virginia. I was touched by the story of Richard Kirkland, a nineteen year old Confederate sergeant. The Union army had been defeated, but many soldiers lay wounded on the battlefield. Those who were still alive remained in their battle positions. Sergeant Kirkland could not bear the sound of the wounded as they cried out for aid and relief. Placing his life in danger, he took canteens of water and offered drinks to the hurting men. Union soldiers began firing on him, but the firing ceased as they realized his actions were from a heart of compassion rather than malice.

Are we fighting a civil war within the church? The battle is now believer against believer as arguments are made and people are hurt. People leave churches. Believers lose the passion of serving their Savior. The spiritual death toll grows.

• Contemporary music vs. traditional
• Programs and activities vs. Bible studies and prayer meetings
• Casual dress vs. formal
• He said vs. she said
• It’s always been done this way vs. new and different
• My ministry vs. your ministry

Issues such as these pull us away from the real enemy; “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Ephesians 6:12 NIV).

We are all either wounded soldiers lying on a spiritual battlefield or active soldiers fighting in the trenches. Shouldn’t we be offering drinks of water to our fallen brothers rather than firing fatal shots? After all, fellow believers aren’t the real enemy and by firing another verbal blow or spreading another slanderous story we may find ourselves serving within the ranks of the true enemy.
•  Worship
•  Learn
• Attend
• Share
• Do
• Serve

“…Whoever is not against us is for us. I tell you the truth, anyone who gives you a cup of water in my name because you belong to Christ will certainly not lose his reward. And if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a large millstone tied around his neck” (Mark 9:40-42 NIV).

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