8/15/2023 0 Comments The Never Ending Life of a miracleSometimes the miracle in the moment is so big it can blind us to all the miracles that will grow from the miracle at hand.
We took a trip yesterday I've wanted to take for a long time. We went to the spot at Carteret General Hospital where nearly 17 years ago I watched a helicopter lift Elliott from the ground into the air and on to a NICU at Pitt Memorial Hospital in eastern North Carolina. By the time that helicopter took off, I had prayed. I'd told God I trusted him. That no matter what became of Elliott's life that day, I trusted him. I also hoped. I hoped like I'd never hoped before. That the baby that came into our lives that morning would be a baby that got to stay in our lives. It's overwhelming to return to a spot and see your teenage son standing in a spot marked by celebration when it appeared more than possible that day the spot would be forever marked by grief. I don't know why I get to celebrate where others grieve. I will never understand that. I do know this, tough. The miracle I took a picture of yesterday was not the miracle I thought I was standing in 17 years ago. The miracle of life that day has sprouted limbs of life I could have never seen coming. One of those limbs is certainly me. Elliott was born that day with what the doctor called little more than a heartbeat. There were many days before Elliott, and there have been days since, when my life has felt like little more than a heartbeat to me. But in many ways, when the doctors and nurses and helicopters brought Elliott to life that day, they forever kept me alive. In bringing his heart to life they forever kept me committed to mine. And then there is Ian in the car. Clueless to this photo session in many ways. But had we lost Elliott that day would Ian have even come to be? It's an important question to me because where Elliott brought the miracle of life Ian brought the miracle of laughter. I mispronounced the name of the movie while purchasing tickets at the theater yesterday. Ian couldn't stop laughing. To this moment I don't know why it was so funny, but I know what the miracle of his laughter does for me. Because laughter at times HAS felt like a miracle. Some of us forget how to do it without miracles. I believe miracles never lose their life. Snapping that photo, I could see just how grand a miracle can grow. Snapping that photo, I could feel just how deep a miracle can go. It's easy to believe that miracles are life. I think I more believe that miracles are seeds. Seeds that God plants; seeds God longs for us to help bring to life. Maybe miracles aren't the answer as much as they are the question: what will you make of me? I am thankful for my 17-year old miracle. I'm excited about the life and laughter that miracle will continue to grow and spread in this world. For miracles don't have an expiration date. They have no boundaries. Unless, of course, we stop seeing them.
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Two nights ago, Elliott asked me if he could go down to the beach late at night to try to take in the Perseids meteor shower. Then he asked again last night.
My first thought was, dude, you're not old enough to be going to the beach late at night all alone. My second and welcome to reality thought was, oh wait, yes you are. Then Elliott invited Ian to come along. And as challenging as the reality was accepting that I have young men and not boys on my hands these days, the grander reality that these young men like hanging out together was soothing. And these two teenagers, late at night, wanting to go into the night chasing The Perseids? There are certainly more disturbing places for them to venture into. I have to acknowledge they get that sense of excitement for the cosmos and much of all things nature from their mom. I mean, I love nature, but little gets me out of bed after dark to chase it! Little gets me out of bed after dark period!! 😊 Post-divorce relationships can be challenging. Part of navigating that challenge for me is being able to see the beauty in my boys that never would have come without that relationship. And I do see it. I teach and preach and train a lot on the brain. And this idea that a young brain needs to develop in an environment of safety and love to give it the best chance to have a higher-level thinking brain that one day can dream and imagine and see beauty in all of it. Another post-divorce challenge is you can come to believe you've messed your kids up. That they will never feel safe again. Then you hear them rustling around late at night - trying hard not to wake the old man - as they run off to the beach to chase shooting stars. That rustling, rustling the old man invariably hears, it is comfort. Because no matter the damage done, they are chasing their own shooting stars now. And if I'm being honest, they are doing it decades before I ever started imagining what chasing mine might look like. I am thankful for their chase. I am thankful for the comfort that comes to me from that. And I pray every wish they pray on those shooting stars comes true. Just like mine does every time I hear them sneak into the night to chase them. It was late in the day yesterday. The sun had taken its toll on me. The sun, however, doesn't take the kind of toll on young boys that it takes on old men.
And one of my young boys wanted to go fishing. I initially tried to convince Ian that tomorrow might be a better day. We wouldn't be as tired. We'd have more time to get ourselves together. Ian did what Ian always does, he accepted it and said he understood if everyone else wasn't up for it. I know he meant that. I also know inside he was disappointed. The boy loves his fishing. A friend recently told me the heartbreaking story of losing a son many years ago when he was a teen. I could tell how heavily it weighs on her even to this day. Does losing a child ever stop weighing on you even to this day? I wondered what she would give for one more chance to fish. I told Ian let's go. Let's go see if we can catch some fish. (Elliott, on the other hand, said I'm good here in the AC. Maybe the sun does take a toll on young boys after all 😊). The fishing was slow. The catching was none. But I watched as Ian switched out baits and lures and was completely happy to be in the middle of the process even if the outcomes weren't great. I am reminded of that a lot lately. It's the process of parenting that is meaningful. Sometimes the outcomes don't look like we thought they would, but we can always sink ourselves into the process. At least as long as we have that chance to sink in. Finally convinced the fish weren't into being caught today, we walked back to the car. Ian started telling me about this 'first boat' he and a buddy are dreaming of buying when they turn sixteen. Walking and listening to Ian talk about this, I felt like I'd just landed a blue marlin. I've always said I have two goals as a dad when it comes to my influence on my sons. One, I want my boys to come to know and love the God I know and love. There is no better place to come to know and love God than on the edge of a dock looking over some of the most majestic waterway in America. Two, I want my boys to be able to come to me with their hopes and fears and disappointments and dreams. All of it. Yesterday, when Ian was rattling on and on about his future boat and what it would look like and all the work he was willing to do to be able to afford it, I was hearing passion. I was hearing dreams. I was reminded, if you get the chance to sit it out or fish - fish. Maybe you won't catch anything, but maybe you'll hear dreams you've spent a lot of your dad life longing to hear. I don't know if Ian's dream will come true. But yesterday a big one came true for me. And that's a fish story well worth telling. 8/11/2023 0 Comments I am already here. I always was.There are a lot of things in my life I long for. Not many of them material, really. Simple things, like human connection. Belonging. And there are days that can feel far away, until I remember - remember all that is already there.
This past week I spent considerable time with really good people. I led a 3-day training and presented at another meeting. I spent time with a treasured friend. All of these experiences were centered in the beauty and power of human connection. At times these experiences can be more reminder of what I am missing than what I have. Until I remember these beautiful people are part of what I already have. Their laughter. Their tears. Their vulnerability. It's already there. It's already there and mine for the accepting. The boys and I leave today for a final summer jaunt to the beach. They will make it foolish to long for anything to come when all that matters most to me in the world will already be there. Steven Furtick says, "the more aware I am of the already blessings the more I can deal with the not yet questions." How many of us are lost in searches for things not yet come? How many of us begin to believe we are so far away from those things that we can't imagine that they will ever come? I want to offer as the greatest source of hope the things that are already there. Life is good at drawing our attention away from what I already have. I believe it is the work of the devil to leave us stranded on an island in between all that we have and all that we long for. He leaves us there wrestling with the confusion and tension and frustration of it all. But we are not stranded on that island. We are not lost in the in between. Every moment we have the power to step into the moments of all that we already have. And in every moment we have the power to be reminded that all that we long for is not as far away as we can begin to imagine. We are not as unworthy of it as we come to convince ourselves we are on that island. For many reasons, I should not be alive today. Today is a sunrise that should have never arrived. But it did. It did because in the countless yesterdays that made today feel like an unlikely event, God was there. Reminding me with reminders and sunrises I did not hear or feel, that one day I will wake up in a moment that felt like it would never come and I will hear God say, "I am here." I am already here. I always was. Live in the present. I hear this advice a lot these days. But what on earth does it even mean - to live in the present?
I think it starts with recognizing that left to my own flow in life, the places I live are in lands very distant to present. Left on my own, I live in the past. Or in the future. And the fearful and regretful and shame and often guilt-filled emotions that take me there, those emotions are met with a piling on effect in those lands. No one beats themselves up about their past and then once again re-visits the past and finds themselves feeling whole again there. No one fears the future and then spends time racing through future scenarios and walks away feeling any less dizzy. Whole again and free again are only found in the present. We don't often find ourselves living in the present because visiting the present requires a trip plan. You actually have to plan to visit the present. The momentum of life drags us into the past, or into the future; very few sit down and decide I will visit these lands today. We just land there. Often, over and over again. But the present, the present requires decision and commitment. It requires not packing bags but leaving them all behind. Present requires us to pour nothing out. Present is all about receiving. Receiving grace. Grace from ourselves. Present is about recognition. Recognizing that the grace I long to receive has already been given to me by God. Present is where we quiet the world long enough to hear God whisper: grace.... Russ Hudson says this is hard enough to do when conditions are favorable, but "when powerful emotions arise, it is generally much more difficult to find a ground in us that can be compassionately awake with what we are feeling." Compassionately awake with what we are feeling.... We are often the most merciless when it comes to dealing with who we are. Very few people beat us up more than we beat up ourselves. Because we go to special places where that is generally accepted. We go to the past. Or to the future. It's in this moment, in this presence, where we can find quiet, in prayer and meditation. It's in this moment when we can hear the whisper of grace, from God and from ourselves. It's in this moment that I am offered the chance to make myself into something that looks and feels like greater good. You cannot do that in the past. Nor the future. Only here. Now. In the present. I had a chance to present at a Help Hope and Healing conference yesterday in southwest Virginia. One of the main speakers was Jamie Tworkowski.
Jamie is an author and speaker and advocate for mental health wellness. I was immediately drawn to him. His vulnerability and willingness to share his deepest struggles managed to connect with my deepest struggles. Jamie said, "a story is a sense making device". It never ceases to amaze me how hearing someone else's story helps you make sense of you own. Then Jamie told us he was born in Morehead City, NC. Some of you may know that's where the hardest and yet most beautiful day of my life took place. It's where my son Elliott was born. Without a heartbeat. When your first kid is born without a heartbeat, the day is long. It's not the day you read about in the "your first baby" books. In that moment there is no story that makes sense of the story you are suddenly living out. Today, as I look at Elliott, the high school Junior, the kid with the slyest smile I know, a smile that often brings the kind of reassurance I was desperately seeking that day nearly 17 years ago in Morehead City, the story makes more sense than ever. I believe with all my heart that God has prepared a place for us beyond this life. That's the story that most often makes sense of the story I live. I believe it so strongly because this side of heaven I so often find myself in moments that feel like they have been prepared for me. Yesterday was one of them. I am reminded today that we are always walking in God's shadow. He will always already have been wherever we will go. To remind us of that, in his wake he will leave women and men like Jamie Tworkowski. He will leave them there to tell stories that will help us make sense of ours. He will leave them there to remind us, that no matter how challenging the story gets, the story has a happy ending. It's already been prepared. |
Robert "Keith" CartwrightI am a friend of God, a dad, a runner who never wins, but is always searching for beauty in the race. Archives
May 2024
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