Author: Lisa J Radcliff

"Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name together." ~ Psalm 34:3 This has been the theme verse for my life since I married Doug in 1985. I hope to write thoughts and stories that will magnify the Lord and cause others to praise him with me. As a survivor of child sexual abuse and other experiences that left me fearful and hopeless, I am so thankful that God has turned my life around. Having found freedom from my past, I have been blessed with a full, joy-filled life. I am passionate about sharing my story with others to bring them hope. My book, Hidden with Christ: Breaking Free from the Grip of Your Past, is my story of overcoming CSA. It is written differently than most books on abuse, highlighting the "heroes" God put in my life who kept me from be swallowed up by the darkness of abuse. God has used the book to help others find freedom which gives me great joy. The biggest joys of my life are being married to my husband, Doug, raising our three boys, welcoming our three daughters-in-law into the family, and being Mom-mom to our nine grandchildren! In addition, I have served in youth ministry and taught women's Bible Study for over 30 years.

Lessons from a Fire: Lesson 3 – Grieving What Was Lost

My last two blog posts shared connections I saw between a fire at a local bank and recovering from sexual abuse. The first showed how setting up boundaries is essential to rebuilding in safety. The second explored the dangers hiding within the walls. Today I’m going to move from the bank fire to something a little more personal—a fire at our home.

We were jolted awake by pounding on our front door. Jumping out of bed and running down the hallway, my husband yelled over his shoulder, “Call 911—the garage is on fire!” From our bedroom, I saw an orange glow filling the window at the end of the hallway, a stark contrast to the night sky. I stumbled to the phone, but just as I got there, Doug hollered up the stairs, “Never mind. They’re here.”

It was a police officer who had been pounding on the door. The newspaper delivery boy (remember those?) saw the fire and called 911. I was thankful for the young entrepreneur making his rounds, tossing newspapers on porches before sunrise. Fire trucks rolled up and started dousing the flames. The backyard filled with first responders, onlookers, and possibly the arsonist. We found out from the police that it was arson season. At the change of seasons, the arsonists come out. And they like to hang out and watch the devastation. I never knew.

Fortunately, our garage was at the back of the property, safely away from house. It was actually three structures meshed together over 100 years. The oldest was a chicken coop, then a storage shed, and finally a garage. We used the entire structure for storage. It was full: projects we were working on, kids’ outdoor toys, tools—you name it, it was stored there.

And that was the problem. So much stuff. By the time the fire was completely out, the garage and its contents had been reduced to ash, mangled metal, and unidentifiable melted stuff. The insurance company was happy to reimburse us for the value of everything we lost. All we had to do was figure out what was lost and the replacement cost for it—before googling was a thing.

First, we had to remember or identify all that was lost. Sifting through the remains, some items were obvious and some were not. A melted red and yellow lump stumped us for a short time. Then we remembered: the Little Tikes car. There were antique tools that just needed to be cleaned up. But other antiques, including a set of French doors we were refinishing, were destroyed.

The research began. We lived in an area saturated with antique stores. I visited several of them, asking about the value of the things we had lost. Then I browsed the local Sears Hardware store to price all the tools, ladders, gardening supplies, and other items we could remember were inside the garage. The insurance company would only pay one time, so anything we had forgotten to claim could not be claimed later. As the years went by, and we needed a particular item but couldn’t find it, we realized it was probably in the garage.

The connection to rebuilding after sexual abuse is that it is necessary to recognize what was lost. We may even have to make a list. That list might include childhood innocence, trust, safety, relationships, self-worth, and more. Grieving the things that were lost is necessary. But we don’t want to stay in the ashes. After acknowledging what was lost, it’s time to rebuild.

Over time, flashbacks or memories of abuse may surface. I still get those, 45 years after my abuse ended. I believe God brings to mind past abuses when we are ready to work through them. Unlike the insurance company’s one-time payout, we can continue to work through the memories and effects of abuse for as long as it takes.

For our garage, my husband designed the new garage and did most of the rebuilding himself, with some help from friends. The police never found the arsonist, so justice was never served in that way. Likewise, most abusers are never charged with a crime or brought to justice, but that doesn’t mean we are stuck with a pile of ashes. After the fire, we removed the ashes and rebuilt something better than the hodgepodge of structures that was there before.

Survivors of abuse can do the same with the help of friends, support groups, counselors, and God himself. He is the master designer and builder. The life he can rebuild from the ashes of abuse may be more beautiful than if the abuse hadn’t happened. But it takes work. Set up boundaries to rebuild from a place of safety. Recognize the harmful effects of abuse. Grieve what was lost. And trust God to create beauty from ashes.

And provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor. Isaiah 61:3 NIV

If I can help in your rebuilding, please contact me.

Lessons from a Fire: Lesson 2 – Danger from Within

Two weeks ago, I shared parallels between a fire destroying a local bank and sexual abuse. The first lesson was about setting up boundaries to start rebuilding from a place of safety. You can read that blog here. The parallels didn’t stop with the boundaries. Today’s lesson is on the danger that no one could see.

The day of the fire, customers and employees came and went without a clue that there was something dangerous going on within the walls of the bank. It wasn’t someone planning a heist or a disgruntled employee about to explode. It was an electrical short, literally within the walls.

This branch looked no different than any other. Everything seemed completely normal, with no cause for alarm. But just hours later, the wailing of alarms pierced the air. Three fire companies raced to the scene. Witnesses described flickering hues of bright orange as flames engulfed the lobby. Thick black smoke billowed skyward. Vinyl siding dripped on the outside, insulation sparked inside, baskets of promotional pens melted into white mounds.

Once the fire was doused, the extent of the damage could be assessed. The building was a total loss. It would have to be torn down and rebuilt. The investigation found that faulty wiring caused the fire. It was an electrical problem that had been festering probably from the time the bank was built several years earlier. It finally got to a point that a spark triggered a fire within the walls, destroying the entire building.

Again, I thought of the devastation of sexual abuse. Abuse victims are among us everywhere we go, yet we can’t tell they are survivors of something so devastating. They look like everybody else in our circle. They smile, they raise their kids, they go to work, they attend church, they cheer for their home teams, they go to the beach for vacation. They seem just like you. Maybe they are you.

But maybe something has been smoldering inside them, unknown to anyone else. That was me. No one knew I had suffered sexual abuse until my abuser was arrested a decade later. People thought I was just a quiet, introverted child. Really, though, fear and shame paralyzed me.

Survivors can live a lifetime with something smoldering under the surface. Every now and then, they squelch a small fire, and no one ever knows about it. Other survivors barely make it through the day without a complete meltdown. They succumb to triggers that send them into a tailspin of disaster. They try to hide the damage, but eventually that short circuit will shake them to their foundations.

Like the bank, they may need to tear things down to safely rebuild what was lost. There’s a process of removing the damage left by shame, fear, anger, mistrust, and hopelessness. It starts with talking about what happened with someone safe. It takes time to process what happened and how it affected them. But with a strong foundation of safety and support, they can rebuild with confidence.

There’s no point in pretending the abuse didn’t happen or didn’t cause any damage. Imagine if the bank had done that—just continued business as usual, ignoring the damage the fire caused. They probably wouldn’t have stayed in business very long. A support group is a great place to start repairing the damage. Survivors can share their deepest struggles with others who can empathize with them and begin peeling away the layers of damage.

The bank hired a professional to rebuild their building. They had the blueprints and ability to remake the bank building exactly as it was before. Survivors are in even better hands because God is in the business of healing and restoration. Even if there is no support group or counselor around you, God is always with you. You can trust him with all the damage abuse caused. He already knows what’s been going on inside of you that no one else can see. He knows what triggers you, and he knows the plans he has for you. He won’t leave you living in brokenness. He has a plan to build your life into something strong and beautiful.

I will restore to you the years the swarming locust has eaten (or the fire has burned or the abuse has stolen). This promise of God in Joel 2:25 was my foundation as I began the healing process. And God has been faithful to his promises. He walked with me through the fire of abuse. He took away my shame and fear and replaced them with hope. He made me stronger, more compassionate, and more resilient than I would have been without the abuse and the work it took to overcome it. He more than restored the years lost to abuse. And he will do that for all who put their trust in him.

Look for (at least) one more lesson from the fire in another week or two.

Lessons from a Fire – Lesson 1: Safety First!

A fire tore through a local bank building just over a year ago. The lobby was destroyed. Remnants of black smoke clung to the stone facade above the boarded-up doors and windows. Clearly, there was structural damage to the drive-thru, and large pieces of fascia curled away from the building like peeling paint. Over the next few weeks, a salvage company demolished the rest of the building and leveled the ground around it. The burned-out business put up signs saying they were rebuilding. Several months passed with no evidence of rebuilding. But then a construction company’s billboard-sized sign appeared, announcing the rebuilding project was underway.

This time, evidence of rebuilding appeared. Heavy equipment was parked on the property. Dirt was pushed around. But what stood out to me was that barricades were set up. One of the first steps in rebuilding was making the project safe. A big part of that safety plan was to keep out those who might cause more harm.

As an abuse survivor, those barricades were a visual reminder of the need to set up boundaries while in the process of rebuilding what was lost. Many survivors have false guilt when they create space between themselves and those who might cause them harm. They know that some of those people don’t mean to cause harm, but their words or attitudes do just that. So, to rebuild their emotional health, they may need to erect some barricades and keep certain people out of their lives, at least for a time.

The barricades on the bank building remained until the construction was just about completed. They were in place until all the structural work was done, and just the finish work on the inside was left. But it occurred to me that the inside still has a barricade in the form of a vault. Very few people who enter the bank will be allowed access to the vault. It’s not for everyone, just those with the right clearances. Survivors should make note of that too. There will always be parts of their life or story that are not for everyone, just the most trusted people in their lives. And that’s okay. It’s not just okay, it’s necessary.

Most abusers are people who were trusted. Being harmed by someone you trusted is as damaging to a person as that fire was to the bank. Like the rebuilding of the bank, survivors need to do the work of removing the damaged areas and preparing their hearts to rebuild trust. Rebuilding trust takes time.

Start with the barricades. They allow you to rebuild from a place of safety. The first steps might be with a counselor, pastor, or trusted friend. It might be in a support group. It needs to be with people who won’t do more harm. Over time, you will rebuild trust and be able to take down some of the barricades because you’ll feel safe without them. In the process of rebuilding, you’ll become more resilient. Even if someone harmful shows up in your life, it doesn’t mean that what you’ve rebuilt will come crashing down. You will have learned that other people don’t control you or your emotions—a big step in the rebuilding process.

Eventually, you’ll feel that the barricades can come down, except that vault. The keys to that are only for certain individuals and God himself. He is the one who can be fully trusted with your heart and life. We will never fully understand the depth of his love and care for us. He promises he will fight for us, he will restore us, and he will bring us safely home. Even when we don’t feel safe or wonder if all that was lost to abuse can be restored, God will fulfill his promises, and we can rest safely in that.

After you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. 1 Peter 5:10 ESV.

Scar Season

It’s the season of scars. The kids are outside again. Skinned knees are just a stone-under-a scooter-tire away from happening. Time to stock up on the Paw Patrol Band-Aids® and fill the freezer with boo-boo bunny ice packs. The adults are not immune to the scars of spring either. My husband has already started a few new ones from cutting down some trees, pulling out picker bushes (his nemesis), and getting the zero-turn ready for the season.

My scars are well documented in my second book, A Time to Laugh: My Life Over Fifty with talk of tattooing them into something fun (check it out). But just for good measure, I tripped over one of the picker bush vines while walking in the woods yesterday and did a full body plant. I told Doug where it is so he can eradicate it from the face of the earth. Fortunately, I didn’t break a hip, but I may have a new scar somewhere. Oh well. Tis the season.

The most important and most talked about scars of this season are the ones Jesus acquired when he went to the cross. And they should be. His scars were from wounds that bring us healing. Think about how he got those scars: from the crown of thorns pressed into his head; from the scourging (short whips with sharp pieces of bone and metal) of his back, buttocks, and legs; from the nails in his feet and hands; and from the spear that pierced his side. They ought to be talked about and pondered this Easter season.

In the past year, I had torn rotator cuffs (yes, cuffs, both of them). Because of my FQAD, torn tendons are common. I’ve had a torn rotator cuff repaired in the past. But this time, as I remembered the pain and difficulty recovering from that surgery, I hesitated to do it again. I didn’t have FQAD then. It can be negatively affected by anesthesia. It could cause more tears after the repair. I was torn about what to do with these tears. So I spoke to my physical therapist.

He said that if I decided not to have surgery, PT would help build the muscles around it, and scar tissue could develop, which would maybe do some “repairing” of the tear. I opted not to have surgery. I’m so glad I made that decision. I have almost full use of my shoulders. It seems scar tissue did form over the tears. So, the scars had some healing properties, but they can’t do what Jesus’s scars did.

His scars healed the broken relationship between the Father and his children. His scars brought eternal healing, full and forever. My scars bought me a little time to be able to do things with less pain. His scars healed me for all of eternity. My scars only affected me. His scars were effective for the whole world.

He was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace; and with his wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:5 ESV.

Daffodil Hope

Early spring in my neck of the woods is one of my favorite seasons. Down by the lake behind our house, the peepers hatched, and they fill the air with unending chirps. The red-wing blackbirds are back, squawking loudly. Their songs are challenged by the grackles’ return and their calls that are reminiscent of an old rusty swing.

There’s a red hue on the tips of the tree branches, promising the gray winter woods will soon be replaced with the pale green of new leaves. Slivers of bright yellow are peeking through buds on forsythia bushes, ready to burst. A few pink cherry blossoms have already popped open. All of these are signs that spring is indeed here.

My favorite sign though is the daffodils blooming in the woods. I think it’s because they sprout and bloom among the dead leaves on the forest floor. New life rising from where there was only death. I can walk through the woods, with the dead leaves and fallen branches crunching under my feet and come upon a delicate daffodil with its colorful little trumpet reaching for the light. They brighten my mood, making me smile. They give me hope that more flowers and warmer temperatures are on the way. And they are a perfect picture of new life in Jesus. We were dead in our sins, but God made us alive in Jesus.

Maybe it’s not a perfect picture of new life in Jesus because the daffodils always had some life in them, even as dormant bulbs. They just needed the right conditions to sprout and come to life. We are kind of the opposite really. We are alive: eating, breathing, heart beating. But spiritually, we aren’t dormant, we’re dead. Warm temperatures, a change in seasons, the right amount of rain and sun—none of it will bring us to life. It took another death, the death and resurrection of God’s own Son, for us to have a chance at new life, eternal life.

New life can come at any time of year for those pursuing it, not just springtime. It doesn’t have to wait for the seasons to change. It just takes recognition that you’re dead in your sins and a desire to be alive. Believing that Jesus died in your place so that you can have eternal life is the beginning of faith. Faith blooms and flourishes as it pushes through the dead stuff of our lives, leaving it all behind, and reaches for the light of the world. These are the thoughts I have when I see the first flowers of spring among the deadness of winter’s remnants. And my heart is forever grateful for the new life I was given forty-five years ago.

Why stay dead when Jesus offers you eternal life? Spring is a perfect time for a new life—a season of new beginnings, of hope, when the dead are raised to life, like my little woodland daffodils.

But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. Ephesians 2:4-5 NIV

That Other Christmas Trip

As I’m putting away the Christmas decorations, I’m thinking about the way the first Christmas ended. Not with storing the stockings and jingle bells for next year, but with a trip to the temple in Jerusalem.

I hadn’t really thought about the fact that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus took a trip to Jerusalem about seven days after his birth, but it’s recorded in Luke 2:22, 24:

“And when the time came for their purification according to the Law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord and to offer a sacrifice according to what is said in the Law of the Lord, ‘a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons.’”

We hear about Mary and Joseph’s trek to Bethlehem and lament with Mary about walking or riding on a donkey over hill and dale while carrying a full-term baby. But their next trip could not have been much easier. In fact, I would prefer to travel while pregnant over traveling with a newborn, even the short distance from Bethlehem to Jerusalem.

Traveling while pregnant is uncomfortable, but traveling with a newborn is a whole different ballgame. You don’t just grab your purse, phone, and keys and jump in the car. You pack a diaper bag, throw in the stroller and port-a-crib, make sure the car seat is appropriately secured, and don’t forget the extra clothes and clean-up supplies for when the baby spits up all over you. Ugh.

Okay, maybe Mary and Joseph didn’t pack a lot of extras, but they did make a trip to Jerusalem with a newborn. I think she took that trip with Jesus clutched to her chest, if she was as nervous as I was bringing my first baby home from the hospital. How many times did she tell Joseph to be careful or to slow down guiding the donkey?

As I took a closer look at that trip, the reason for it struck me: it was for their purification. The birth of Jesus made Mary unclean. His conception was miraculous, but his birth was typical, albeit in a stable and announced by angels. A typical birth included bleeding. Bleeding required purification. The Law of Moses in Leviticus 12 says that “if a woman conceives and bears a male child, she shall be unclean for seven days.” Verse 4 is what really made me think. “Then she shall continue for thirty-three days in the blood of her purifying. She shall not touch anything holy, nor come into the sanctuary, until the days of her purifying are completed.”

I pictured Mary, unable to enter the sanctuary or touch anything holy, holding Jesus—the holiest of holies. How ironic! She was there to offer sacrifices (two turtledoves) for her purification. For the following thirty-three days, Mary wasn’t to touch anything holy. During that time, she would have held baby Jesus, nursed him, changed him, bathed him, burped him, patted him, and rocked him to sleep (or bounced him on her knees to sleep, if he was anything like my babies). She was a mom with an extraordinary yet typical baby who needed her touch in many ways.

She lovingly handled that holy baby, as the days of her purifying were completed and beyond. How many times did she pick him up to comfort him or cuddle him? She was kept away from the sanctuary, but not from the one who made it holy.

One day, her baby would shed his own blood, the holiness of which would fully cleanse her from her sin. There would be no more need for sacrifices of turtledoves or days of purification or trips to faraway places dragging along all the newborn gear. His blood would take away the sin of the world. They named him Jesus, for he would save his people from their sins.

Missed It!

Did you see it, or did you miss it? I’m talking about the aurora borealis—the Northern Lights. I missed it, but I tried really hard to see it.

At 7:40pm on Thursday night, a text from a friend who lives maybe two miles from our house announced the Northern Lights show had begun. He included a pretty pink picture to prove it. We scurried outside and searched the sky, but there were too many tall trees. So, we hopped into the car and headed off hoping to hunt them down.

Our first stop was the turnpike bridge less than a mile from our house. It provided a perfect position to peruse the northern horizon but no lights. We moved on, deciding to drive up to Ridge Road. It is named that because, in case you hadn’t guessed, it rolls along a ridge. We assumed our elevated search would result in seeing stupendous streaks of light. But the only lights were illuminating little athletes legging it out in local parks. We tried the airport. No aurora. We kept on searching as we sped along the ridge but saw none of the pinks, purples, and greens that were lighting up Facebook.

It seemed that everyone was seeing the Northern Lights but us. Since we had gone this far, we kept on going to the lake that many said was the most auspicious area to ascertain the aurora. There were lots of cars coming and going and a large party parked on an overpass, but all we saw was darkness, so we pressed on. At 9:15pm we drove down our dark driveway, disappointed we missed the dazzling display.

Looking at others’ pictures and comments that the lights were still visible, I sprinted outside, hoping to see a single shimmer or shaft. But there was only darkness and crickets, one of which took advantage of the open door and would probably chirp all night. But that’s okay. I could run outside every hour or so to check for the fleeting fluorescence.

A few friends said to focus my phone’s camera and take photos even if it feels futile. The camera was sure to find fugacious flashes. It didn’t. I wondered why. Photos from friends were phenomenal. I was in the same spots they had stopped. How had the luminaries eluded me?

I think it was a combination of things. I was dressed dandy for our spontaneous excursion but not to remain outside for a prolonged period. We didn’t stop and wait for the lights to appear. We just kept meandering and monitoring. We thought we were honed in on the northern horizon, but maybe we weren’t even headed in the right direction. Whatever the reason, the night wore on and all we could do was delight in others’ descriptions of their dynamic discoveries (secretly wondering if it was all an elaborate ruse).

There is another astronomical event that we are sure will not allude us—Jesus coming back in the clouds. Like my search for the Northern Lights, some are looking in the wrong direction (Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6) Some aren’t prepared, and others think it’s just a conspiracy theory (Therefore, you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect. Matthew 24:44)

Though we don’t know the specific day and time, it could be soon, so I’ll keep watching and waiting. This is one cataclysmic atmospheric luminescent event I’m sure I won’t miss. You won’t need your camera to capture the Light of the World. He will be evident to all. (Then will appear in heaven the sign of the Son of Man, and all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see the Son of Man coming on the cloud of heaven with power and great glory. Matthew 24:30)

If you’re not sure you’re prepared for his appearing, ask me about it. And if you have great pictures of the aurora borealis, share them with me. I’d love to see their splendiferousness.

Look, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him (Revelation 1:7a NIV).

Monochrome Life

Does your life ever feel monochrome? Gray? Boring, lacking color or vibrancy? That’s what I thought about as I looked out at the scene before me. Gray rocks, gray water, gray sky. The mountain, too, would be gray, if it wasn’t socked in behind the gray fog. A darker gray line delineated the horizon. There is beauty in it if you’re willing to see past the bleakness.

As I sat there looking into the gray water and sky, I thought how this is the way I sometimes see my life. Chronic pain is its monochrome feature. Always there, some days with the heaviness of darker, stormier gray, other times just a little misty gray fog.

Glancing to my left, the late July huckleberry bushes were covered in green huckleberries. More monochrome, only green, making it difficult to distinguish the berries from the leaves. But then I noticed a few of the huckleberries had started to ripen. A lot were green, but some were pink, some were a deep wine, and others were already purple. It won’t be long until they will bring joy to a little girl I know who loves to pick them.

The changing berries gave me renewed hope. Life is not monochrome forever. Even today, I can tell the sun is trying to burn off the fog and gray clouds. A brightness comes and goes bringing hope for a more colorful day ahead. Sometimes it just takes a little time.

My monochrome of chronic pain will have its season. But there will be colorful times interspersed, even during days when the pain is great. There are friendships that bring hot-pink laughter. There are soothing violet pleasures in reading a good book. There are happy, bright yellow squeals from grandchildren. There is the deep blue calm of prayer. The monochrome that tries to take over gets pushed back just a little.

And when the gray lingers, it is a reminder to lean on the one who created the full spectrum of color. He has chosen which colors to use in just the right amount to create his masterpiece. He knows when to blend in other colors and when to just leave the gray. One day, when we look back at the design he has chosen for each of us, we will be amazed at the beauty the grays brought to our lives.

Embrace your monochrome days. They have beauty and purpose and will make the colors around them even more glorious. And just maybe with a little time, they will give way to unexpected vibrant-colored joys.

For I consider the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. Romans 8:17 ESV

The Beauty of Hope

The beauty of spring is all around us. Sometimes Doug and I are amazed that God has provided such a beautiful place for us to live. While driving into town this week, Doug pointed out two routes that are faster than the one I was taking. I know there are faster routes, but the one I take is so pretty—red buds and dogwoods in full bloom, azaleas, tulips, and cherry tree blossoms swirling in the breeze. The natural beauty is complemented by lovely, restored Pennsylvania farmhouses and barns. This route is definitely worth an extra two minutes.

My favorite spot is a pasture encompassed by a split rail fence. It is home to two caramel-colored horses. And today, the pasture was covered with thousands of little yellow buttercups. Beyond the pasture is a picturesque view of the valley. It’s at an intersection, an easy spot to stop for a few extra seconds, taking in the scene. I was thinking I should write a blog on God’s beauty reflected in his creation.

But then, while at my infusion appointment, the doctor told me he doesn’t recommend doing any more infusions. They don’t seem to be making any difference in how I feel. This is my sixth one, and if I don’t feel any better, they probably aren’t going to work. The hope that I felt six weeks ago was lost as the last infusion dripped through the IV.

On my drive home, the same route I took to get there, I didn’t notice any of the beauty I had earlier. Nothing had changed along the way. The trees, flowers, houses, barns, even the horses were still there. But I had lost hope. We see everything differently when we have hope. But when hope is lost, even the beauty around us fades.

I tried to pull myself out of hopelessness. After all, what had really changed? The treatment didn’t work. So what? It didn’t make my condition worse. It just wasn’t going to bring healing. The only thing lost was some time and a boatload of money—but nothing of eternal value. One more thing can be crossed off my list of possible treatments. But I was struggling with this outcome, dwelling on it to the point of missing the beauty all around me.

Then I got a text from a friend who didn’t know what had happened with me today. She sent me a song by Matthew West called Don’t Stop Praying (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpbZqMJ-B44). She didn’t know where I was in my spirit, but God did. He knew, he cared, and he rescued me—the same things he has done for me over and over again. You might even say, he showed me his beauty, which never changes from season to season, regardless of my circumstances.

It’s okay (maybe even necessary) to grieve what is lost, whether that is people, finances, health, or anything else. God doesn’t expect us to ignore the difficult things in our lives and just move on. But he does comfort and strengthen us through those things, and then he refocuses us on himself. When we turn our attention to him in prayer, our hope is renewed, and his beauty fills our eyes and permeates our spirits.

This door in having my health restored has closed, but I’m going to take Matthew West’s advice: don’t stop praying! And I’ll get to that blog about God’s beauty another day (or did I do it anyway?).

“Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer” (Romans 12:12 ESV).

Treasure Hunting

Last week, three of my besties and I spent seven glorious days together in Florida, close to the Treasure Coast. It is aptly named because of the many Spanish galleons that shipwrecked along the coast, spilling their gold and silver into the Atlantic Ocean. Treasure hunters have been finding lost treasures on the beaches of the Treasure Coast for decades. We had the privilege of running into a bona fide treasure hunter during our visit.

He was coming up from the beach, carrying a metal detector and large scooper, so we asked him if he found anything. He said, “I didn’t even start looking—the sand is too packed here.”

We asked, “What’s the best thing you’ve found?”

We were a little surprised when he answered, “A Spanish coin from the 1500’s.” What?! That’s when the conversation really got moving and we learned that he is, indeed, a real treasure hunter (and a retired sheriff). He has authored six books on treasure hunting and is called “The Legend.” He showed us pictures of the many cool treasures he has found. We had a great talk with him and learned all kinds of things, including where to find the beaches with free parking and the best snorkeling. And, of course, we found the real “treasure,” treasure hunter, Terry Shannon.

As I reflected on our week in the Florida sun, and all the experiences we shared, I realized we had found other treasure too. Our treasures weren’t Spanish coins, belt buckles, or silver bracelets. They were meeting people, relaxing in the warm sun, seeing a rocket launch, laughing (a lot), eating great food, and doing it all together. The most precious treasure we found was building the relationships we have with each other. And if you know any of us, you know we formed new relationships with everyone we met.

Life is all about relationships. Just ask my children—they heard that so many times growing up, if you say, “Life is all about…”, they will respond, “relationships.” They may do it with a bit of a groan (I never let an opportunity to say it pass by). The Bible is quite clear on this point. Matthew 6:19-20 (ESV) says, “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven, where neither moth or rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.” Treasure in heaven—the things that will last forever.

It’s cool that “The Legend” has scrapbooks filled with gold and silver coins. And I’m sure it’s a thrill to find something like that in the sand. But they won’t last. The time spent together, the encouragement, the shared laughter and a few tears, the talks about spiritual things, the prayers, challenging each other in what is biblical and what is not, even protecting each other from all the creepy crawlies on a jungle hike—these are the things that will last forever, treasure in heaven.