Kathy

Thomas

“Happy Birthday! And congratulations on your engagement!”

Our waiter’s words should have evoked squeals of elation. Instead, I stared at him in disbelief. After an awkward eternity of silence, I stammered, “Uh… well, thank you… but, he hasn’t asked me… yet.”

The waiter’s face turned every shade of shame, as he apologized profusely for letting the cat out of the bag. For a fleeting moment, I actually felt sorrier for him than for myself. My boyfriend – the coward – received no such pity, as he sheepishly grinned at me from across the table.

It wasn’t like I didn’t see it coming. It was my 18th birthday, and my father had surrendered his Cadillac, his credit card, and his personal country club membership card to ensure the night was extra special.

The whole scenario spelled P-R-O-P-O-S-A-L.

We had spent the evening giggling, whispering, and holding hands, trying to ease the awkwardness of being the only two diners in the entire restaurant. Later, we retreated to the balcony for a moonlit stroll. A surreal harvest moon engulfed our starry backdrop and stretched across the glassy lake. The warm August breeze twirled my long wavy hair, as swans danced across the water. It was the stuff that movies are made of.

But apparently, Prince Charming chickened out.

Unaware that my sweetheart had missed his cue, our unsuspecting waiter proceeded to extend his blessing on our hasn’t-happened-yet-but-should-have engagement. Had it actually been a movie, I would have screamed, “Cut!” and insisted on a retake. But it wasn’t, so we stumbled back out onto the balcony, where my boyfriend attempted to redeem himself by finally popping the question, himself, and offering his family’s prized heirloom – his Grandmother’s engagement ring.

It wasn’t the knight-in-shining-armor moment I had pictured in my head, ever since I was a little girl. But, I swallowed my disappointment and allowed my knight-in-tarnished-tinsel a chance for redemption.

I said “Yes.”

I even allowed the waiter a chance for redemption, by insisting he serve our wedding cake at our reception. After all, he had officially popped the question.

Over the years, our “Happily Ever After” hasn’t always been the fairy tale we hoped for. “For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health” have been tougher promises than either of us ever expected. But through it all, we’ve found hope in offering each other one more chance for redemption.

Our heavenly Father surrendered His greatest treasure, Jesus, to offer us His proposal – our chance for redemption. If we surrender our own personal agendas and say “Yes” to Him, we find ourselves engaged in the greatest love story ever written. It isn’t always “Happily Ever After” either, but it’s worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears we invest. Heaven knows, God invested His own blood, sweat, and tears into pursuing a relationship with us.

I have many fond memories of Christmas morning. As a child, I loved saving up my allowance and picking out special gifts for each family member; and I admit – I loved getting presents!

But not long after I became a Christian, I struggled with the commercialism of Christmas. I read emails about Jesus being disappointed, because no one gave Him gifts or paid Him attention at His own birthday party. I watched news stories about people celebrating the holiday season by beating each other over the head with the latest must-have toy and trampling each other to death, in order to get a great deal on a big screen T.V. - and I felt guilty.

To make matters worse, my mother was the most generous grandmother on the planet who looooooved to shop for toys, so she could watch the delight on my children’s faces when they opened their packages. That wasn’t a bad thing. I just worried that my kids would miss the point of it all. I constantly had to reign in her gift giving.

Then one Christmas, she bought my oldest son a guitar. He was 15 and had asked for a guitar every Christmas since he could say the word “gee-taw.” I had always discouraged my mother from buying him one, because we couldn’t afford guitar lessons. He was also the shyest kid on the planet, and I knew there was no way that kid was ever going to get up in front of anyone and play the guitar. Thank God she didn’t listen to me.

At first, I thought the gift was a ridiculous, excessive waste of time and money. He studied the instruction manual and picked around on it here and there, but quickly got discouraged. His music was recognizable, but not necessarily entertaining or enjoyable.

"Hold still."

Plucking the long thin scalpel from the counter, he slowly drew the razor sharp instrument toward my hand. I yanked hard, but he held on like a vice. My veins pulsed.

He looked intently into my eyes. "You must hold still. It will all be over in a minute."

I dug my fingernails into his flesh, desperately trying to pry his fist open with my free hand. But, his fingers were like iron. As his cold sharp blade pierced my skin, I shrieked and threw myself on the floor - both legs and one loose arm flailing - causing the knife to jab deep into my thumb. Blood gushed down my wrist. He released his grasp.

Astonished, I surveyed the damage. It was over. Just like that.

"If you'd held still, you wouldn't be bleeding," he sighed.

He reached down gently with the same hands that had held me captive and wiped away all of my blood. He gently pressed the wound he made, and I watched - both horrified and fascinated - as green oozed out. Lots of it. The pain of his wounding was nothing compared to the pain I'd been living with. His piercing of my flesh released the throbbing pressure and purged the infection festering beneath my skin.

He washed and bound my wound, wiping away my tears, and wrapped his arms around my faithless mess. "It would've been a lot less painful, if you'd held still and trusted me." He was right.

Daddy was a surgeon, who'd saved many lives and bound many wounds... much worse than mine. In fact, Daddy was right about a lot of things. Days earlier, I burned my hand doing something Daddy told me not to do. When he asked about my wound, I told him it wasn't that bad. It was. So, I hid it from him.

Then, my wound got infected because I neglected to cleanse it like Daddy instructed. He offered to help me care for my wound, but I was stubborn, prideful, and not interested in missing any summer fun by wasting time dealing with my self-inflicted injury. So I lied and told him I'd taken care of it. I had. Sort of. I'd jumped in the pool. To an eight-year-old, that legally counts as a bath.

I avoided Daddy, fearing he'd discover the undeniable proof of my disobedience. Fortunately for me, my sin found me out. Eventually, I had to relent and seek Daddy's help, because my wound became so swollen and painful, it was impossible to hide.

All of my pain and suffering could've been avoided if I'd simply trusted and obeyed my father to begin with. He'd never given me any reason to doubt him. My father was a great provider, protector, caregiver, and skilled surgeon, who knew how to carefully pierce only the flesh that was necessary for healing. He never cut anyone open, unless it was necessary for their good; and he never cut anyone open without also binding up their wounds.

If I'd trusted and obeyed my father, I never would've burned myself in the first place. Hiding my wound only caused it to fester. His knife only made me bleed, because I'd struggled to free myself from his healing hands.

When we were kids, every summer we ran a lemonade stand in front of my friend’s house at the entrance of our neighborhood. We pilfered our mother’s pantries for chocolate chip cookies and pink lemonade, then happily set up shop with our Dixie cups and piggy banks. We sold a lot of lemonade, but probably never made a profit. However, we were always content with simply making enough money to buy more cookies and cups to do it all over again the next day. Life was so simple then.

I had a pretty carefree childhood, full of security, freedom, and ease. As I grew into adulthood, life became complicated and difficult. Even without some major drama unfolding, day to day adulthood can be stressful and frustrating. It’s tempting to complain – a lot.

Eventually, all of us will find ourselves in situations that are irrevocable and unchangeable – circumstances that cannot be undone – only counteracted. We are forced to figure out how to take a worst case scenario and turn it into the best case scenario we can. Sometimes, the only thing we can do in our suffering is to allow God to turn the bitterness in our lives into something sweet. “When life gives you lemons – make lemonade.” I have made it my goal in life to become a master lemonade maker.

Every now and then, God gives me a glimpse into someone else’s life that makes me stop and count my blessings, even in my distress. I have a friend who suffered horribly from breast cancer. She is a young mother who had an allergic reaction to her chemotherapy that almost killed her.

Her experience left her with constant daily pain that some days is so unbearable, she can’t even get out of bed. Most days, she has to walk with a cane, and most nights, she sleeps covered with heating pads that mask the pain just enough to let her sleep. She also struggles with “chemo brain” that causes her to have difficulty with her memory.

To add insult to injury, a lot of people began to avoid her in the midst of her suffering. Some could not accept and believe the gravity of her circumstances, because she was so young. Others didn’t know what to do for her, so they distanced themselves from her.

In spite of it all, she has pressed on through her pain and allowed God to transform the bitterness she has suffered into something sweet. She recently founded a non-profit organization that raises money to pay for mammograms for women who have no insurance or money, in the hope that early detection of breast cancer could spare other women from suffering like she did.

At all of her events, in true breast cancer awareness fashion, she wears pink. All of her decorations are pink. All of her paperwork is pink. Even her hair is pink, sometimes. I tease her and tell her that when life gave her lemons – she made pink lemonade. She has made her “lemonade stand” and delights in every woman she serves. Like our childhood lemonade stand, she ain’t in it for the money! But, she simply finds her joy in serving a little refreshing sweetness in a bitter world.

Horrified by what I had just done, I clasped my hand over my mouth, gasping in disbelief. How could I have done something so stupid? My good intentions of sharing the love of Jesus had just morphed into a disastrous failure with potentially explosive consequences. Hopefully, the poor man would forget where I lived, before my absent-minded witnessing took its toll.

A year earlier, I had fallen deeply in love with Jesus and decided that I wanted to utilize every opportunity God provided to teach my preschool children to see every man, woman, and child who crossed our paths, as a divine appointment personally arranged by God, so that we could share the love of Jesus.

One sweltering summer morning, as we headed out for a daylong adventure, we noticed that our neighborhood had hired a tree service to trim the monstrous hundred-year-old oaks that canopied our streets. That evening, as we returned home, exhausted from the blistering Florida sun, we were amazed to see a solitary tree man still working diligently, right in front of our driveway. The rest of his team had given up and gone home to escape the miserable heat.

As we unloaded the car, the children watched him carefully and decided that he must have grown quite hungry and thirsty by now. We rushed inside to make him a plate of cookies and some refreshing iced tea. I hurriedly crammed some tea bags into the automatic tea maker. Noticing that they had no labels, I remembered that my cheap generic tea always brewed tastelessly weak, so I doubled the amount of tea bags. I wanted to present this man with our best offering, so he would experience the powerful love of Jesus.

Excited to fulfill their divine appointment, the children scurried out the door with their plate and pitcher full of Jesus’ love. At first, the man was speechless. Then, his voice shook with exhaustion and emotion as he recounted how he had passed dozens of streets and hundreds of houses that day, and no one had even offered him a glass of water.

He gratefully scarfed down half of the cookies and stuffed the other half into his pockets. Parched, he chugged several glasses of iced tea and filled his thermos with the rest. Obviously moved by the children’s thoughtfulness, he thanked them profusely and returned to his grueling work for another hour or so, stopping every now and then for some more tea and cookies.

Beaming with mother’s pride, I reminded my children of Jesus’ words as they watched him pack up his truck and drive away:

How can a good and loving God allow all of this pain and suffering?

I stood silently, alone in the hospital room, watching my baby breathe with my hand carefully placed on his back, hoping to feel his heart still beating. His breathing was frighteningly shallow and his skin was an eerie bluish grey. He had been unconscious for what seemed like an eternity. My clothes were soaked with his blood and waste, and the smell was almost as overwhelming as the pain in my heart.

As the doctors prepared for emergency surgery, they placed him in my arms, and I cradled him close to my chest. He was filthy, but I didn’t care. He was my son. Nothing was going to keep me from holding him tight, as I sang over him in the suffering and waiting.

When the doctors took him from my arms, the reality struck me that I was spattered in his innocent blood. The full weight of Calvary hit me in that moment. It was both crushing and freeing at the same time. I had understood the facts of Jesus’ suffering and death on the cross, accepted His free gift of salvation, and surrendered my life to His Lordship years before.

But, today I was speechless as I endured the “privilege” that most people will never experience of literally being covered in the innocent blood of my beloved son. There is a depth of the gospel that is incomprehensible until you have experienced such a thing. It seared into my soul how great the Father’s love must be for us, that He would allow His beloved only Son to endure such undeserved suffering, spill His innocent blood to cover our filth and shame, and draw us near to Himself.

There was no person in this world for whom I would have even considered trading my son’s life. He is my Beloved. How great the Father’s love must be for us.

My son survived his brush with death. But, the experience awakened me to the reality that whenever tragedy strikes, we often forget the suffering Jesus endured for our sakes. We get angry when life is painful and forget that nothing we will ever endure could even begin to compare to His suffering on the cross of Calvary. We forget that God lovingly and willingly offered His Son to suffer the punishment for our sins, spill His precious innocent blood, and die in our place… and Jesus lovingly and willingly accepted the task.

We often forget that much of our pain comes from the consequences of our own sinful and rebellious choices, and all of our pain is the result of mankind’s rejection of God. It goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden, when God offered mankind a life free of pain and suffering, but mankind wanted a life free of God, instead. Mankind chose to rebel against God, and pain and suffering was the consequence.