Author: Lisa J Radcliff

I’ve tried to ignore it all weekend, but it still occupied my thoughts–it was Father’s Day. Does it upset me because my father is gone? No. My dread of this weekend really doesn’t have much to do with it being Father’s Day. It is because it was Father’s Day weekend 2001 that I lost my mom. She died suddenly, unexpectedly. Our last communication with her was when she called my husband that Saturday evening to wish him a Happy Father’s Day.

I called her Monday, June 18, to let her know the boys had a baseball game near her home at 6:00pm. She didn’t drive at night anymore, so this was one she could get to and be home before dark. She loved baseball! I left a message on her machine, but she didn’t call me back. And she didn’t show up at the game, odd. But I knew she was planning to go away sometime that week, maybe she had already left. The next day I got a call that Mom didn’t show up to a lunch with cousins. She never missed those. I drove to her house to check on her.

The minute I walked in, I knew there was something wrong. The pantry door was open. A box of ice cream cones sat on the counter. For my mom, this was a mess. She would never have left her kitchen like this. I called for her but got no response. I went into her bedroom. There she was. Was she sleeping? No. I saw something on her neck and quickly identified it as the last inch or so of an ice cream cone. Taking in the scene, I knew her wish had come true. After her mother had died suddenly, she said she hoped she went the same way. She won. My grandmother died while cleaning. My mom died while lying in bed, reading a book, and eating ice cream.

At the funeral and throughout the first year as holidays and birthdays came and went, well-wishers would say, “It gets easier.” I kept thinking it must. But it didn’t. Then the boys weddings and babies came. Mixed with the joy of each occasion was a sadness that Mom would have loved seeing them get married and rocking her great-grandbabies. But it wasn’t to be. It would never be. And then there were the Father’s Day weekends. As hard as I try, I can’t get through one without tears. Plus, it reminds me that July 4 is right around the corner. The Fourth of July is perhaps the only holiday worse than Father’s Day. My dad died on July 4, 1998. Nope, it hasn’t gotten easier.

I wonder sometimes about people whose loss has gotten easier. Has it really or do they just say that to protect their own emotions? Maybe it really has gotten easier for them. Maybe they didn’t lie on purpose. I need to keep my cynicism in check. I’m working on that.

I also need to remember that grief and tears are not bad things. Memories, even the difficult ones, are precious. At times like today, I am also reminded that I have a heavenly Father who is near to the brokenhearted. My mom’s pain and tears are gone, and one day mine will be too. I can’t wait to see her again.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:4

It’s a beautiful day for a drive, with the windows down and the music up. That’s just what Chester and I did. Chester is the name of my Charger. Yes, it has a name. Chester may have been moving a little faster than usual on this spectacular day. Then we approached the infamous intersection where I lost another car 33 years ago (Amber).

It was two days before my wedding, May 23, 1985. I had just left work, my last day until after the honeymoon. I was in a great mood. It wasn’t as nice a day as today. I’m sure the windows were up but so was the music. As I approached the intersection, the light turned green I didn’t slow down, no need to. The oncoming car had been waiting at the red light to turn left. There was no one in front of me or behind me. It seemed like he waited just long enough for me to get there, and then he went. I closed my eyes. The impact was head-on.

I opened my eyes and checked my face in the mirror. I was getting married in two days. Please, no cuts or injuries on my face. There were none. Taking a deep breath, I thanked God that I didn’t appear to be seriously injured. There was a knock on my side window. I opened the window to a woman yelling, “I know CPR!” I responded, “If I stop breathing, I’ll let you know.” I handed her a piece of paper with two phone numbers, my fiancé’s and my mother’s, with strict instructions not to call the second one unless she couldn’t reach anyone at the first number. My mother would have freaked out. Doug would be Mr. Calm, Cool, & Collected. She was able to reach him. Thank you, Lord.

The ambulance arrived. They had some trouble getting my door open. The EMTs asked me lots of questions. Most importantly, what hurts? Just my neck and my hip. And just like that, a man appeared in my backseat to hold my head perfectly still until they could get a backboard. Another EMT said, “I’m going to cut off your stockings.” “But they’re my favorite ones.” “There’s already a hole, and your knee is bleeding.” “I know. I was just kidding.” This EMT does not have a sense of humor.

Lucky for me, the next EMT I met had just the right type of humor for me – the kind that found me funny. And he had the right type of backboard for my contoured seats. Once strapped in, he was ready to lift me out of the car. I groaned saying I knew I should have lost a few pounds before the wedding. He insisted I was as light as a feather. I liked him even more.

He loaded me into an ambulance, let Doug know what hospital we were going to, and off we went. I told him there was one problem. It was too quiet. I didn’t plan on riding in a ambulance very often, so I would like them to use the lights and siren. Mr. Funny EMT yelled to the driver that I wouldn’t be happy until the lights and siren were on. He obliged, and we raced our way to the hospital emergency entrance.

While I was trying to keep a light heart through it all, spending the evening in the ER being poked and probed and expected to pee while lying down was not how this night was supposed to go. It was Doug’s parents’ anniversary. We were going out to dinner with them and the rest of family right after picking up the tuxes for our wedding. What would happen if I wasn’t there to make sure they were right–that no one was wearing pants that were too short or jackets that didn’t close?

Why bring up this memory from 33 years ago? It all worked out fine, no issues with the tuxes. The family didn’t miss us at the dinner. There was no delay in our wedding or honeymoon plans. The truth is I remember it every time I drive through that intersection. I remember knowing I was going to be hit. I remember the impact. I remember Doug standing in front of my car, which was way too close to the driver’s seat I was sitting in. And I remember how God cared for me that day.

Mr. Funny EMT had said to me if I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt, I would have been launched through the windshield and probably killed. I replied that God had his angels surrounding me that day. My car was destroyed, beyond totaled. I know that God’s plan for me is better than my own, even when it doesn’t seem so. Nothing takes him by surprise, which gives me peace when the circumstances of life jump out of the shadows and try to unnerve me. Remembering that day reminds me of God’s grace, protection, and sovereignty. He is faithful, and I can rest in him no matter what–even a senior citizen deciding not to wait for me to get through a traffic light so that he didn’t miss the early bird special.

The first women’s conference at Grace Bible Fellowship Church in nearly 30 years was a resounding success! What a privilege and blessing it was to share the platform with Megan Hill, Aimee Byrd, and Jane Roach. Their keynote addresses exceeded expectations and blended together so well without being repetitive.

The 300+ women in attendance were also a blessing. What an encouragement to have so many likeminded women together–women who want to serve and glorify God with their lives. I trust that, like the women we learned about, these ladies also will have changed lives because of this encounter with Jesus. I gained new insights into God’s Word, and I’m sure I am not alone.

I was humbled by the turnout to my workshop, which ended up being standing room only, some in the hallway. What a great honor and blessing to be able to offer hope to women who have faced traumatic circumstances in their pasts. The stories they shared with me were astounding, and I know they will have powerful testimonies as God works in and through them. Please pray for more opportunities to share the joy of finding freedom in Christ.

My book sold out before lunch on Saturday. I’m so sorry there were not more copies available at the conference. The good news is that you can find it here, just click on “my books,” and you’ll find it for sale there. It is also available at Amazon and anywhere else you buy books. Although I have done a book signing, it was strange to have people approach me, cautiously but hopefully, asking me to sign their book, as if I might decline. It made me laugh.

I’ve known for a long time that God wanted to use my past to help others. While that has happened over the years, this was a new level, and I am so thankful for the opportunity. As I told the ladies on Saturday, his glory shines out of my brokenness. It’s not that he uses us in spite of our brokenness, but because of it.

You have read the word blessing several times in this post. There is no better way to express how I feel about this weekend. I was blessed to be a part of it!

“I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all making my prayer with joy, because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:3-6

Spring is finally here! My tulips are blooming, the sun is a welcomed sight, and the Phillies are playing nearly every day. Seeing kids in Little League uniforms brings back fond memories of watching my boys playing baseball. Some of those memories, though, are not so fond.

When raising boys and Seeing Eye puppies, things can get messy (and, at times, a little gross). Like most boys, mine were not exactly neat. Their rooms were littered with dirty clothes, toys, shoes, and petrified food. Add puppies into the mix, and there were chewed clothes, toys, shoes, and less of the petrified food.

We always seemed to be running late, usually because one of the boys couldn’t find a matching shoe. But one particular day as we were running late for a baseball game, my son found all his gear, but his athletic cup had been chewed. Having sharp edges on your cup could definitely ruin a boy’s game. So I got the boys in the car and to the game and then made a bee line for the sporting goods store.

It didn’t take long to find what I needed. I was in a hurry to get it to my son before the game started or he wouldn’t be allowed to play. Rushing at the checkout, I told the cashier not to bother with a bag. I grabbed the molded plastic package and headed for the car. Just as I stepped off the curb, I must have squeezed the package too hard. The cup squirted out into the street. Not just any street, but the main street through town, filled with traffic.

I bolted after it, chasing it around in the zig zag pattern it was making as the oddly shaped object bounced this way and that. I wondered if I was on Candid Camera as I darted around in the street, chasing a runaway athletic cup. It’s good I have a sense of humor. Up to the point of the cup taking a flying leap, I was not a happy camper.
Why can’t my boys put their things away? Why are we always late? Why can’t I do a better job managing my home? But then following the bouncing cup, which ended up under my car and me lying on Main Street trying to retrieve it, I started to laugh. Why not? Being angry wasn’t going to make things any better. Sometimes it’s best to just see the humor in a crazy situation and go with it.

God has put a lot of things in my life that bring me laughter. My boys and their puppies were always good for a laugh. My sweet husband and I share lots of laughs, and my crazy friends make me laugh till my sides hurt. Over time, I did improve at managing my home and time. But even better, I learned the joy of laughing and not taking myself or life too seriously.

I arrived at the baseball field with the captured cup, found my son in the dugout, and handed it over (a little scuffed). I tried not to laugh, not wanting to draw undo attention to my 10-year-old boy. But I did warn him to be careful putting it in place. It’s a rascally little thing.

“I will bless the Lord at all times;
his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
My soul makes its boast in the Lord;
let the humble hear and be glad.” (Psalm 34:1-2)

I was reminded recently of the first time I experienced a house with a formal living room. It was my friend’s home. The front door opened to a beautiful room filled with queen Anne-style furniture, delicate antiques, lace doilies, and plush carpet. Upon entering we swerved to the right and into the family room. A much more relaxed atmosphere, the furniture seemed more suited for playing or watching TV or taking a nap. There were toys and a puzzle on a card table and a dining area. At one point in our play time, I wandered into the formal living room. The coffee table seemed like the perfect place to play with the Matchbox car I had in my hand. The wheels had barely touched the table when my friend came in, looking alarmed. She said, “No! You can’t play with that in here. This room isn’t for playing. We’re not allowed to touch anything or sit on the furniture or even walk on the carpet. You need to come back into the family room.” I wondered what good was a room where you couldn’t touch anything. I asked my friend, “Why do you call it a living room if no one ever lives in it?”

Since that time, I have seen many formal living rooms and still question the point of having them. Some are there to impress visitors. Others are used for special occasions. None are open to children, pets, or the dirty, smelly things they bring with them. None are where people live. That got me thinking about my own life. Do I let people in to where I live or do I open the door just enough so they can see how pretty my life is? At my house, I do have a living room that isn’t used much, although the furniture is not special and the grandkids and dogs run through it all the time. My family room is all the way in the back of the house. You can get a glimpse of it from the front door, but you can’t see much of it. Is that what people see of me? My living room is almost always clean, with nothing out of place or dirty dishes on the sofa or marks on the walls. But my family room is strewn with dog toys, coloring books, half-empty glasses, music, TV, and the carpet is speckled with fairy-wing glitter and colorful bits of Play-Doh. It’s where real life happens. It gets messy.

I am not a great housekeeper. I hate to clean. That is not good for my house, but maybe for my life it is OK. The messiness isn’t hidden. Depending on the circumstances, when you first meet me, you may only see the spotless living room. But it won’t take long to get to the messy family room. While I may apologize for the mess, I don’t try to hide it. This is who I am. Like my well-worn family room, I am full of scratches, stains, junk, and broken pieces. But like that room, I’m also welcoming, full of laughter, comfortable–a place to be real. My family room is a much better reflection of who I am than my living room. And I want my life to be the best reflection of God that it can be. I haven’t given him much to work with. He has had to use broken pieces and some really stinky stuff. But God has fashioned me as I am and continues to mold and shape me to be more like Jesus and to reflect his image. In fact, he predestined me to be conformed to the image of his Son. (Romans 8:29) He is not making me into a formal living room where little of life happens. He has designed me to be a family room, where I will share in his suffering, his joy, and his love, and hopefully reflect his image to those who stop by. What a great place to be!

A few weeks ago, I had the joy of visiting my west coast granddaughters. During our excursions, my sweet, little two-year-old granddaughter would let our destination know we were on our way by announcing, “I’m coming!” As soon as the latch of her car seat was secured, she would say, “I’m coming, Sea World!” The closer we got, the more emphatic she got, “I’M COMING, SEA WORLD!” By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I fully expected the dolphins to be applauding our arrival. She’s the cutest thing.

It got me thinking of when Jesus said “I’m coming” at the end of the book of Revelation. Like little Taylor’s announcement, this one, too, is full of expectation and wonder. And, like hers, his is repeated three times, with the last one sounding a little more emphatic, “Surely I am coming soon.”

Sea World didn’t know Taylor’s arrival at their ocean-themed entrance was imminent, even though she was imploring them all along our 10-minute drive there. We, on the other hand, can (and should) be watching and waiting eagerly for Jesus’ coming. He didn’t wait until the end of the book to tell us he was coming back. Throughout his ministry, he said he would have to leave this world, once he paid the debt we owed, but he would come back after preparing a place for us. “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:3)

Sea World welcomed us through the gates just like they welcome everyone else. They were happy to see us, but we were nothing special to them, even though we are season ticket holders with a two-year-old who practically dances through the gate. And the child has the power to get her mom-mom to touch sharks! Yet Sea World does not recognize her as anything special. But they were ready for us–they had their smiles on and their cameras ready. The dolphins were warmed up, ready to perform. Everything was set up to guide us to the shark tanks and make sure we passed by or through the themed gift shops at the end of each attraction.

When Jesus comes again, not everyone will be ready for his appearance, but everyone will recognize who he is. For some it will be that sinking feeling of regret like never felt before, way more than when the roller coaster starts moving and you think you may have made a mistake. This one is forever. There won’t be any mistaking who he is. Stars will be falling from the sky. Trumpets will be blowing. Don’t worry, you’re not going to miss it, no matter where you are. But for those who have been waiting and watching for him, their excitement will be overflowing. And they will dance through heaven’s gates with great joy, a joy that will last forever. “He who testifies to these things says, ‘Surely I am coming again.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20)

A few weeks ago, there was an interesting sequence of events. Our teen group was talking about gender issues. One of the conclusions they came to was that sin is sin. They shouldn’t treat LGBT students any differently than they would anyone else. It was a good discussion. Then came a story from Florida. The Florida legislature passed a bill that ensured a Christian-based adoption agency would not be forced to offer children for adoption to same-sex couples. I understand the basis of the bill. To the adoption agency, it is a matter of religious freedom. Because they view homosexuality as a sin, accepting a same-sex couple would be against their religious beliefs. They shouldn’t be forced to do something that goes against their religious beliefs.

But going back to the discussion we had the night before, if sin is sin, and all sin is the same in God’s eyes, and we shouldn’t treat them any differently than anyone else, then how can we as Christians decide a particular sin precludes a person from being able to adopt a child? Are we saying that a gay person would not be a good parent? Do we ask heterosexual couples wanting to adopt what sins they struggle with? We aren’t assuming they don’t have any sin in their lives, are we? Are we saying that their sin isn’t as bad as the gay couple’s sin? Obviously, there are exceptions. We wouldn’t allow someone with a history of violence to adopt a child (or a pet, for that matter). But all things being equal – character references, job history, income, housing, education, etc. – aren’t we just being prejudicial if we say a person is unfit to parent based on their sexual preference?

Maybe I am an enigma in the Christian community. I have several gay friends, not just people I know who are gay, but actual friends. We do lunch and stuff. Some of these friends have stood by me and even bailed me out of some difficult situations. They have encouraged me, picked me up when I’ve been down. They are friends I have counted on. I have been happy for the privilege of writing recommendation letters for them for jobs or volunteer positions. I have watched them work with children, and I believe if they wanted to be parents, they would do an excellent job.

I am pretty sure that most Christians would say a gay person should not be discriminated against when it comes to housing, jobs, health insurance, etc. So why do we draw the line with children? We don’t want them as scout leaders, and we certainly don’t want them to be parents. But why? Have we asked ourselves? My guess is we must think that gay people surely must be pedophiles. Not true. At least not any more true than heterosexuals. “It’s not them, it’s their lifestyle.” What does that mean? I met my gay friends doing the things that I do. Their “lifestyle” includes Starbucks coffee, long days at work, helping kids with homework, walking the dog, making dinner, paying bills while watching This Is Us, and collapsing into bed, exhausted. Sounds a lot like my lifestyle.

Unfortunately, I am afraid that Christians have the same overreaction to gays that gays do to Christians, at least the ones who make the news. From what we see and read, gay people tend to think of Christians as hateful hypocrites. Christians tend to think of gay people as deviant predators. What if we took a look at each other, starting with the ‘each others’ we know. The gay people I know are really nice people who are fun to be around. I’m pretty sure they would say the same about the Christians in their lives. (At least I hope so, since I’m one of them.)

When I first saw the Florida ruling on Facebook, it was posted by my cousin who is gay and is also an adoptive parent. One of the comments she made was “Christians need to stop hiding their prejudice behind their religion.” The more I thought about that, the more I wondered if it is true. I thought about my cousin as a parent. She adopted a little boy with special needs. She had cared for him as his physical therapist since his birth. In adopting him, she knew he would be her whole life: from brain shunt to feeding tube and a future where the only certainty would be numerous surgeries and learning disabilities. Her son is now 19 years old, and I can’t imagine anyone who could have done a better job raising him. He recently started eating real food and has discovered a love of hamburgers. He also loves boxing and monster trucks. His mom takes him to a gym where he has excelled in their boxing program. And he has won enough medals at Special Olympic competitions to make Michael Phelps jealous. Maybe the best thing, he always has a smile on his face.

After thinking on this for a couple of weeks, I finally had to ask, “Are Christians homophobic?” That accusation and characterization has been leveled against Christians for decades, and I always felt it was unfounded and false. But the more I think about how Christians treat those who are different from us, the more I wonder if it may be true.

March 1. It’s a special day for me. It’s a day of memorable events. Today is the second anniversary of my mother-in-law’s home going. It was a moment that will be forever etched in my memory. Four generations of our family surrounded her bed, singing hymns, as she left us to meet God face to face. We held hands and prayed, and for the first time ever, I saw my father-in-law’s chin quiver.

The prayer that day was offered by my middle son, whose birthday happens to be March 1. Twenty-nine years ago today, right about now, I was giving birth to him. At 10 a.m. as a classic Lassie rerun was beginning on the room TV, the Pitocin kicked in like a Mack truck. For the next 41 minutes, my body did all it could to evict its 7 lb. 11oz. occupant. He almost didn’t wait for the doctor, but that’s OK. His father is a nurse and was ready to catch him just as the doctor ran into the room and took over. We were thrilled to add another boy to our family.

And now, today, March 1, I am celebrating another memorable event. My first book is officially being launched, released on Amazon, downloading to Kindles and arriving in mailboxes. Prayers are being offered that it would be a blessing to those who read it. When I started the writing process a few years ago, I didn’t know where it would lead, if I would finish writing the story, or if it would become a book. It has been an exciting journey so far, and I am looking forward to what else God has in store.

In the book, I mention a story of a woman I met when speaking at a women’s retreat. The theme was “Standing Stones,” marking the times God has done something significant in our walk with him. In Israel, during the time of Joshua, the people set up memorial stones as physical reminders of the things God had done for them.  Joshua 4:6-7 says (in part), “When your children ask in time to come, ‘What do those stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them…So these stones shall be to the people of Israel a memorial forever.”

I don’t have memorial stones (although there are a few large rocks in Maine that hold special memories). Instead, I have places, people, events, and dates – March 1 being a biggie. I am thankful to God for all he has done: for a very special woman, for my sweet baby Timmy, and for this new adventure. When my children (and anyone else who asks) want to know why March 1 is so significant to me, they may need to take a seat, there is a lot to talk about.

It’s THAT week: the one leading up to the exciting day I’ve been looking forward to for months. Oh yeah, my book’s official launch is this week. Amazon will start filling orders on Thursday. But, more importantly, on Saturday, I will fly away for a week of snuggling with my west coast granddaughters! Life is about perspective.

While I have put a lot of work into the book and it is good to see it completed, it doesn’t compare to seeing my grandchildren, holding them, hearing them laugh. <Sigh> It’s going to be a long week. I’m going to be that kid in the backseat, asking “Are we there yet?” every few minutes. So, I will try to focus on other things going on this week, like, my book.

Some of you have not just already ordered and received your copy from my website, but you have even read it. Your feedback has been great and very much appreciated! As we near the official launch date, here is another excerpt. This one is on shame:

Childhood sexual abuse shapes people in ways they wish it wouldn’t and may not even realize. One of the most common effects is the feeling of shame. I make the distinction between guilt and shame this way: Guilt results because of what you do, while shame results from believing what you do is who you are or who you think you are. Because we sin, we are all declared guilty. It’s a judgment against us. Shame takes that judgment and translates it from “you did a bad thing” to “you are a bad person.”

Abused children are often taught that the abuse is their fault or that they caused it in some way. The abuser tells the victim that they couldn’t stop themselves because of something the victim did, or that the victim deserved it. The victim then assumes that if they caused it to happen, then they must be evil themselves. Simple reasoning.

While our sin can be forgiven and our guilt taken away by the work of the cross, shame can remain. We don’t see ourselves as God see us—pure, holy, and white as snow. We still see ourselves as dirty, bad, somehow complicit in the abuse, and unworthy of such great grace. Our shame keeps us from experiencing the freedom and abundant life that Jesus died for.

We can also fall into the trap of believing we are our past or we are what happened to us, and so we live in a state of shame. While our past will shape us in some ways, it does not determine who we are. God has made us with a purpose in mind. Yes, the devastating things that enter our lives will influence us, and they are meant to, but they do not define us. If we allow God to work in us, he will take those negative experiences and weave them into the tapestry of our lives. They usually end up being the darker, contrasting threads that give the finished tapestry its unique beauty.

Some of us look at that tapestry and instead of seeing that the dark threads make it unique and beautiful, we believe that they ruin the tapestry, destroying its worth. We see what could have been a beautiful piece of art, but to us it is full of holes and mistakes that make it just plain ugly, certainly not something of worth. But that’s not how God sees us. Maybe some of the colors in our life’s tapestry are not what we would have picked, but what gives it worth—what makes it valuable—is who made it. I can only think of one Picasso that I think is a beautiful piece of art. But I recognize that his other paintings are valuable because they are Picassos, not because of my feelings for them.

The creator of our lives had a special design in mind for us. And because it is his design, it is perfect, beautiful, and valuable. It is said that something is worth what someone will pay for it. Jesus gave his life for us, making our worth immeasurable.

That’s the introduction of the section on shame. The next part gets into more specific aspects of shame and sexual abuse. It is one of the most common feelings an abuse victim deals with. As the book’s launch date draws near, I am praying that God would use it and get it into the hands of those it can help.

Half a day gone – Are we there yet?