Courtney

Johnson

I could not see his face. As we wrapped up our meeting around the long, dark conference table, the older gentlemen rested in the back of his chair. He was clothed in a worn t-shirt with no sleeves and an old pair of jeans, with a gold chain sporting a cross just above his chest.

The meeting was over, but we were all waiting for one of the attendants to return with a form for us to sign. The meeting was at the local elementary school, and the gentleman was a foster dad.

He had stopped his work of farming in his fields to be present for the meeting regarding his foster son.

This meeting was scheduled to discuss the seven-year-old boy’s educational needs because he was new to the school. This particular gathering was routine, but the presence of this foster dad in the boy’s life was not.

The gentleman and his wife had become his foster parents less than a month before. As I sat near him, with his silhouette in my view, he answered questions from across the table.

“Do you plan to adopt him?” asked the teacher.

The foster dad replied, “You know, he’s had a hard life. I want to do everything I can to help him. And if I can, I’d really like to adopt him as my son.”

I listened in bewilderment as this older man proclaimed his love for a young boy whom he was just getting to know. He accepted this child into his home without knowing him, and as he explained to us, he was willing to do whatever he could to protect him and love him as his own flesh and blood. It was obvious that he loved his foster son deeply, regardless of the boy’s response, actions, or future circumstances.

As a young girl, growing up in the 80’s, one of my favorite shopping excursions included purchasing my newest pair of white canvas shoes. Once my mom paid for them, she let me place my old shoes in the shoebox and wear the new ones out of the store.

In the sunlight, the white fabric was so clean and shiny, and the soles encircling the shoes were perfectly glossy. However, by the end of my first day wearing them to school, that pristine white fabric sported at least one smudge from the heel of another shoe or from the dusty ground during outdoor activities. The smooth white soles revealed multiple scuff marks from kicking balls or just bumping my new shoes against a dark surface.

A smear of brown dirt popped up after a boy at school stepped on the toe of my new shoes, and then laughed at my failed attempts to keep them white. I peered down at them with disappointment. Inevitably, I accepted the fact that my shoes would always be white, but a deeper shade of white than I preferred.

I recently reflected on this specific memory while doing yard work, and the Lord used it to speak to me. I had taken on the chore of pressure washing my driveway. After 16 years of dirt and rain washing down its hill, it was apparent the concrete needed cleaning.

I started at the top of the slope and alerted with excitement from the immediate sparkle I saw as I swept the wand over the surface. But the more I worked, the more tired and wet I became. At one point in my cleaning, I looked down at my shoes. Though they were white when I started, they had become ashen, dingy, and soaked.

As I peered down at them, God gave me this analogy: as circumstances crowd into my adult life, I am reminded of that same desire I had as a little girl. I wanted clean, white shoes. I also wanted to grow up living a clean, unblemished life — one without bumps, bruises, and scrapes. Yet, I found myself in the middle of my yard, with dirt and water splashing onto my shoes, and I realized that my life is messy.

I have been that same little girl over and over again, walking out in new shoes, down new roads, only to come face to face with obstacles, trials, and many smudges. Often, the bumps and scrapes have come through no fault of my own, and sometimes they have been the result of my poor decisions. From time to time, they have appeared after mistreatment by another person in my life.

“The MRI showed no ligament or soft tissue damage,” Dr. Kana said. “That’s good news. But it did show a stress fracture where the upper and lower bones of the leg come together near his knee. It’s the kind of thing an MRI can pick up, but the x-ray did not.”

I slumped back in the vinyl-covered chair, relieved to know that my 14-year-old son would not need surgery on his knee. The orthopedist had explained his snowboarding injury as a 6-8 week healing process. He said, “With these teenage athletes, like your son, no further therapy is needed. They heal so quickly that, as long as he avoids any painful activities on the track, he will be ready for his meets. Plus, the x-ray showed open growth plates, so he will heal in no time.” 

As we walked out of the orthopedic clinic, we talked about the good news about his knee. Then I added, “And do you understand what the doctor meant about your growth plates being open?”

David shook his head.

“That means that as long as they are open, you will continue to get taller.”

David straightened his posture and broke out in a grin.

Later in the evening, the subject of open growth plates came up again, and I commented, “Well, at least you can still grow. Because mine are closed, I can’t get any taller.”

David replied, “You can just go have them reopened!”

Growth plates in growing bodies seem like these obscure, unknown parts deep inside us. Yet, their role in our development has everything to do with how tall we will eventually be. The soul is not so different. We can’t see it, and no medical test can show it, but it is deep inside our hearts. And like those growth plates, the condition of the soul has a tremendous impact on the person we grow to become. 

It is true that growth plates are open for a season of life, and then they close for good. Despite David’s idea to “reopen” them, it cannot be done. On the other hand, the soul is always open. No matter how young or old we are, the soul can be changed. It can be filled with the Holy Spirit, through belief in Jesus Christ, and it can be awakened and made new.

And there it is – the slightly faded crease at the base of the ring finger on my left hand. It looks naked and exposed, and I wonder if everyone around me notices. I have worn a ring on this finger for so many years that it even measures smaller than the same finger on my right hand. This makes it a unique size that no other ring in my jewelry box can fit. I know, because I have tried.

Since the day my husband proposed to me in that beautiful mountainside chapel, shadowed by a large rugged cross, this finger has been adorned. First, it sparkled with a solitary diamond surrounded by brand new yellow gold. Ten months later, a row of diamonds in an endless band of gold added to its beauty, and my entire left hand was radiant. The stones and metal were beautiful, but the radiance did not come from them. This finger carried the signature of my commitment to a man until death do us part, as ordained before God. Then death happened. And now here I am. The empty finger is now a reminder of my loss – of that man, of that future, and of those dreams. Those rings were not just gold bands; they were symbols.

Can you relate? Like me, do you have an empty finger where wedding bands or an engagement ring used to be? Or do you look in the mirror and see some part of you that is missing, on the outside or the inside, because of illness, disease, or unspeakable loss? 

I have come to realize that my empty finger reminds me not only of my loss, but of my uncertainty about my future. Everything I thought my life would become has changed. My husband and I spent our married life sharing hopes and dreams for the future, for ourselves, and for our children. Now, I struggle to develop those lofty visions on my own. I know that God is with me, but often my mind races with fear about my unknown.

Yet again and again, my Abba Father whispers His promises into my heart, saying, “My daughter, yes, this is loss you have to bear, and yes, this has changed for you. But I never will.” 

Before the sun peaked through the heavy clouds, he was outside, adorned in puffy pants, a fleece hat, and gloves. I watched him trudge through the white powder, and I watched him swing on the swing set high enough to kick the icy limbs above. After drinking my morning coffee and gearing up in my snow clothes, I joined him.

I photographed him making snow angels as he sunk at least four inches inside the white. We worked side by side, on our knees, as I rolled a snowman and he built a fort. We both worked harder on this snow day because we were missing a key helper – his dad, my husband. It has been a while now and we have learned the routine of life without him, but it is in the unexpected that we feel his loss the most.

We live in the south, so snow is always hoped for but never expected. When it happens here, it changes everything for a few days. People ravage the grocery shelves for milk, bread, and eggs, as well as their favorite snow foods, and everyone drains the local gas tanks into their vehicles before driving them home to secure a parking spot until the winter storm is over. Families crowd into their homes, pile on blankets, watch movies, and wait.

The first flakes begin to fall, and faces crowd the windows with plastered smiles. Doors open, as photos of the falling snow are taken. No matter the time of day, all of nature quiets, as flakes drift, and snow blankets the earth. Families begin planning the ensuing snow day, filled with sledding, snowball fights, and hot chocolate. 

The unexpected is where most of life happens. In the case of southern snow days, it leads to fun and laughter. In the case of sickness and sudden loss, it leads to sadness and tears. But it is in the unexpected that people come together. Families team up to build a snowman or families huddle around a grieving loved one. Friends push each other on sleds, and friends pray for each other in distress. The unexpected always changes life – for a few days, a few years, or forever. And the unexpected changes us.

The incessant whining just would not stop. It woke me at 5:15 a.m., as my drowsy mind gradually became aware of my surroundings. The sun was not even up yet, and my bright-eyed chocolate-colored dachshund Macie was begging me for her morning meal. Of course, this was precisely why she was going to the vet for testing. She had been waking up early for months, appearing to be starving despite her complete nutrition. I had scheduled her for a test that would measure her blood levels at the vet all day. The worst part was that the test required her to fast. While I sleepily prepared my coffee, she begged and whined for her morning food to no avail. She did not understand why her master, the one she trusted the most, refused to feed her. Even as I talked to her about her dilemma, I knew she was unable to comprehend my words. 

In the Christian life, how many times do we fail to understand what God is doing? We see Him working and possibly hear Him faintly talking to us. But unless we focus on Him, we often miss what He is trying to tell us. Many times, the Lord withholds good things from us, and it feels like a forced fast in our lives. Unfortunately, our first reaction is to worry.