There’s an old saying that observes, “If you can’t find God--- which one of you moved?”
I was thinking about that the other day with my twelve-year-old son.
The time right before my four kids get home from school and all their activities and commitments is my moment to try to get some work done on the computer. Every day at the same time, in the same place, I can be found tapping away at my keyboard in my office.
Nevertheless, it is rare that a day goes by that my youngest doesn’t bolt in the front door, hollering, “Mom!  Mom!  Where are you?”
Now, I used to try to holler back to try to answer him, but I soon realized it was pointless.  He couldn’t hear me over his own voice volume.  So it is that I soon learned to instead sit quietly exactly where I am and wait for him to remember this and come find me. 
And in time, every time, he rounds the corner to locate me right where I always am. Exasperated, he will announce, “Mom!  I didn’t know where you were –I thought you weren’t here.”
You’d think he would learn.
Might this be what our heavenly Father does with us, his children, when we are desperate for our requests to be heard?
During our toughest times, we tend to run through our busy lives, in a way hollering for God to help us. In doing so, we often make so much noise that we couldn’t possibly hear Him over our own voice volume.
And aren’t these the times we feel somewhat abandoned --- wondering where God is in the moment?
You’d think we would learn.
Because, finally, when we do quiet ourselves down, we eventually come to understand that God was with us all along –He never left.  He was simply waiting for us to get all the running around and the hollering done, and come find Him where He’s always been.
Yes, God never moves from where He always is.  But only when we desperate children slow down, quiet down, and listen to Him, can we find God and finally allow him to move us.

The muscles weakness had been slowly affecting my dad for years before he was told a name for his condition. The diagnosis was Inclusion Body Myositis, but the easier to remember name is the acronym, IBM.  This diagnosis was a mixed blessing. After such a long process of seemingly endless doctor’s visits, there is definitely something good about getting answers.  But there is admittedly something bad when the answer comes back as a chronic condition for which there is no cure. He was told by his doctor that his quad muscles would weaken with time, most likely landing him in a wheelchair. 

Over the years he has reluctantly given in to using a cane, to keep himself from falling as much.  The falls happen unpredictably.  Now, to say his falls are unpredictable, may seem odd, since most falls, indeed, are not predicted; but it seems all the more true when talking about my dad.  You see my dad never just walks somewhere.  He never strolls, meanders or saunters.  He walks with a purpose.  He walks with a destination in mind.  Full speed ahead.  His walk says so much about him.  He is strong, determined and heading somewhere.  I remember as a little one having to walk two steps for every one step of his just to keep up.  But I would keep up.  In so many ways, I have always been intent to keep up with my dad.  Today my kids beg me to slow down as I shop with them in the mall or even just walk around the neighborhood.  I have to smile when they complain about my fast gate, because I know where it came from. 

From my dad.  The man who taught me to walk with a purpose. 

So when his purpose is interrupted with a fall, it seems all the more discouraging.  The first time I saw my dad fall, I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted to help him, but I also wanted to respect the look in his eye that seemed to say, “Don’t look at me like this”.  While he managed to get up with only a skinned knee, claiming he was fine, I knew his knee was not what was hurting him the most.

He vows he won’t go willingly into a wheelchair.  And with the determination that is my dad, I don’t doubt for a minute that he will do all he can to avoid it. 

No matter what happens, though, there’s one important thing he needs to understand.  Whether he falls, walks unaided or with a cane, or even one day ends up in that wheelchair, to me, no man will ever walk as tall as my dad.

Mother’s Day

I suspect my youngest child will one day be referred to as a man of few words. 
Perhaps it comes from being the youngest of four siblings who happen to have no trouble sharing their thoughts with anyone listening.  Maybe it’s the apple falling far from the tree of his parents who have conquered the mastery of the word beyond that which may be healthy.  Then again, it might just be the combination of the two and the simple fact that he has to work too hard to get a word in edgewise.
Regardless of the considerable conversational characteristics of the rest of us, I think it all boils down to the mere fact that my youngest happens to be a genius at getting his point across in other ways, when he sees the need, completely on his own terms.
I have seen this for his entire eleven years. Even as a toddler, he wasn't likely to give a hug when it was requested of him; but completely out of the blue, when the mood struck him, and only when the mood struck him, he would bestow upon me the most wonderful embrace that was all the sweeter due to its rarity. 
When he began to talk, the gushing words may not have spouted forth frequently, but like the rationed hugs, loving words would eventually be delivered in beautiful packages, and savored for their preciousness.

So it is, on days like Sunday, I can appreciate the big picture of my child even more.

It began on Saturday when my little guy had just returned from going out with his dad to get me a Mother’s Day present.  He hung around where I was working on my computer, leaning closer and closer to me.  Soon, he was practically knocking me off my desk chair as he nudged as close to me as humanly possible without crawling into my skin.  Knowing better than to ask what was on his mind, I just waited until he was ready. 

Soon he was. 

With no deliberate drama whatsoever, he simply began to tell me about a new friend of his who had lost her mother to cancer a little over a year ago.  He twisted his body around enough so that he was looking into my eyes as he all but sat on my lap. And then the boy who sometimes only seems to care about sports and other things eleven year old boys care about, the boy who doesn’t say too much, astutely observed, “I’ll bet tomorrow is going to be really hard for her.”

Allowing himself one minute of sentiment, he put his head on my shoulder just long enough for me to try to think of something… anything… to say to a child about another child losing a parent. 

And before I could swallow what felt to be my heart in my throat, that moment was over.

But then the next day came. 

I was treated to my annual breakfast from my kids and then came the “giving of the presents” portion of the morning.  Upon thanking them all for my gifts, I went to give them each a kiss and a hug.  That’s when my youngest grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go.  At first his brother and sisters thought he was just hogging the hugs; but I soon realized there was more to it than that. The prolonged hug was simply him remembering his little friend who was without her mom on Mother’s day and every day after that.  It was, indeed, my youngest child’s way of proclaiming, “Mom, I’m so glad you’re here.”

As tears filled my eyes, I held tightly to my little man of few words. 

Somehow I could hear, loud and clear, exactly what he was saying.