What to do when the Hill becomes a Mountain

“One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard:   

That you, O God are Strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving.” 

Psalm 62:11-12b

It was going to be our “easy” day. Acadia National Park, Maine was beautiful, but our flatlander Virginia Beach legs were hurting from the mountainous hiking the day before.  So today we were going to rest.  We planned to leisurely bike ride along carriage trails until we got to Jordan Pond.  Jordan Pond brags the best Popovers and blueberry lemonade in Maine.  That was the kind of day we signed up for.   

At the Bike rental shop, a very strong rustic Mainer (Maineiac) woman told us we had just missed the shuttle to the carriage trails.  “No problem,” she assured us.  “It is just an easy 2 mile bike ride to the carriage trails.  Once you get past the little hill, you will be fine.” 

Now, I’m not the sharpest tool in the bike shop but I knew to clarify.  “Hill?  Define ‘hill’ please.  We are from Virginia Beach.  It is flat there.” 

“Oh,” she nodded with understanding (pity?) in her eyes “…so I should say mountain, little mountain…once you get past that you will be fine.”   Of course we will. 

Our group was relatively young (ahem), in shape and prideful enough to think we could handle this challenge.  One small issue was our daughter, Maria, did not know how to ride a bike.  So, not to be stopped by such a small hindrance, Carlos decided to rent a tandem bike.  They practiced around the parking lot and we set off.  

Did I mention the small hill mountain?  

I don’t know what our friendly Maineiac was thinking to entrust this task to us.  Before we even started up the small hill mountain we lost one of the wiser of our group to a coffee shop.  The complaining began.  We joyfully yelled, “Hey, this is the worst part, kids.  Just around that corner….”

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Carlos, Maria’s bike seat was up too high and her knees were whacking the handlebar. Over the sound of his own labored breathing he heard her start crying. He felt terrible and immediately pulled over.  

He gently removed her helmet and he told her that Daddy would get her to the top of the mountain where she could have popovers and lemonade.  He kissed her knees, gave her water and this is when I fell in love with my man all over again.   

If I had been riding with her I would not have been able to make such a promise.  There was no way I could bike her up the mountain.  But the most humbling thing is I also realized I was nowhere near as patient as he was.  I would have been frustrated, asking her to keep pedaling because I couldn’t do it alone.  And most likely, I would have quit. I would not have been able to get us where we both wanted to go.   

But her Daddy was able. 

The small hill mountain that was supposed to be 2 miles ended up being a 10 ½ mile mostly uphill climb. And while Carlos suffered to lug Maria (who did not peddle AT ALL) and her half of the tandem bike up the mountain, Maria was perfectly content.  Her Daddy was strong enough and kind enough to get her safely to their destination. 

In that moment, Carlos showed me in the flesh what Psalm 62: 11-12b tells us about God:

“One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard:   

That you, O God are Strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving.”

When Maria was unable to make it up the mountain, she could rely on her Daddy because he was strong enough and kind enough to get her to the top.  When my life goes from hard to impossible, I need what Maria needed.  I need a God that is both strong AND loving.  

Can you imagine if God was either one or the other, but not both?  

A God who is just loving would be like a kindly old granddaddy who is good for a hug and some candy, but not able to fight off the bad guys.  He would comfort us perhaps with “I’m sorry that happened to you.” But a just kindly God would not avenge us or be able to change anything.  

A God who is only Strong would not necessarily have the kindness necessary to handle my weaknesses and insecurities. He might say “Suck it up” or get angry with me.   

But a God who is both STRONG and LOVING is the perfect God, who like a good Father not only has compassion on me, but is strong enough to get me through the incredibly hard times I cannot and do not want to go through.   And He does this because He desires to share the destination with me. 

We will never, ever forget the feast of Jordon Pond popovers and blueberry lemonade that awaited us at the top of the mountain.  And as we enjoyed full tummies and the sugar coma that set in, we told stories of how we made it up the mountain.   I think that was a little slice of heaven right there.  When we arrive at Heaven’s banquet table there will be stories to share and victories to celebrate, but in the meantime, I want to be sure that I am not suffering out the mountain alone.  Just as it would have been ridiculous for Maria to tackle that mountain alone, it is crazy for me to think I can handle what this day holds.  God, the strong AND loving God, is more than able.  And He avails Himself to me and to you.   

God is, after all, Super Good.  

In Case of Fog, Turn Back!

I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag if my life depended on it.* I have no sense of direction. No internal compass. I am completely handicapped in the spatial arena and am totally dependent on my GPS. It is humiliating how I have to memorize landmarks and keep a notebook in my car with directions to good friend’s houses. I walk out of hotel rooms and don’t have a clue where the elevator is, and still have to look at the directory in the mall I have shopped in for 16 years. As someone who is generally competent, this is embarrassing. But truth be told, if you dropped me down in the middle of my neighborhood it would take me a very long time to find my way home.  Keep this in mind when I am 80 years old and get lost.  This is my baseline. As long as I know my name, I am probably okay.

Last week I took the kids for a glorious visit to my parents’ house in the mountains outside of Roanoke, Virginia.   

Roaring Run Waterfall

As I left to come home I decided to take a commonly used “short cut” that my Dad loves along the Blue Ridge Parkway (mistake #1).  As we pulled on to the parkway my sister called and I started chatting with her about our visit with mom and dad and caught up on her new job.  (mistake #2…If I am directionally inept off the phone, I am completely an idiot on it) I drove along mildly aware that I am supposed to be on the parkway for approximately 15 miles.  But the fog was so dense (mistake #3…parkway+fog=trouble)  I couldn’t see 30 feet in front of me.  It was terrible.  I’m creeping along still chatting with my sister, and the kids are starting up with the “I’m hungry!” “You promised us breakfast in 15 minutes” business. I lose cell signal with my sister and keep going, but at this point I am starting to realize that an unusual amount of time has passed, even for a foggy drive.  

Suddenly, we get a break in the fog and a sunny stretch of clear visibility and I realize I have never seen this part of the parkway before in my life.  I ask Will to check navigation and he reports we still have no service.  There are no exits in sight and the woman walking along the parkway looks creepily like she is out of a zombie movie.  They teach you in Parenting 101 not to show panic to your kids, so I am deep breathing and pressing acupressure points while trying to find a safe place to stop or turn around on this incredibly windy road.  And then I hear the very worried voice from the back seat,

“Mom, do you know where we are?” 

How many times have I heard that?  When Markie was 6 years old he would lead us through the airport because he didn’t trust I could find the gate.  My kids have learned to remember where the car is parked in the Target parking lot.  I am untrustworthy, unreliable, unsafe, and a horrible fail as a parent...okay, not really, but I feel that way at this moment.  But then it comes to me.  I can get us out of this situation.

“No, I don’t know where we are, but I know how to get to Grammy’s.” 

And I turned the car around.   

“No matter how far down a wrong road you are, turn back.” Turkish Proverb

No Service

I gave up on the cell service coming back, and gave up on finding an exit that would take me back to a main road.  I decided to go with what I knew and what I knew was I could find my parents’ house.  That meant going back through the fog and past the zombie woman.  And worse, it meant swallowing my pride that I had added an unnecessary 2 hours to our already 5 ½ hour trip.  I kept hoping the kids wouldn’t really notice but as we passed my parents’ church they all yelled “Mom, are we really back in Roanoke? So basically we are just starting the trip????”  Yep, we sure are. 

I think I pouted for the next hour at least.  I felt so angry with myself that I had “done it again.” And I would pay the price of being stuck in the car with three unhappy children for even longer than the already interminable trip.  But as I stewed and sulked, I was aware of a greater truth lived out in this merely inconvenient circumstance.  When I am not sure where I am or how to get where I want to go spiritually, emotionally or relationally I need to turn back and go to what I know.  And what I know is that I can find God when I go to His Word.  And there is a lot of  good instruction and wisdom there, and more importantly there is Truth.  There is truth about His character (He is Good and Sovereign) and truth about me (I am flawed but greatly loved).  When I have screwed up and have brought down consequences on myself and those I love, I need to turn back and go “home” and not continue to race down a foggy path in the hopes that I’ll figure it out.  And at home, in that Secret Place with God my Father, I will find grace and forgiveness and the hope that I can start the journey anew. I hope this encourages you to turn back.  In those areas of your life and heart that you sense that you might be heading down the wrong path.  It can be really embarrassing to admit you have no idea where you are or where you are going, but it also can be such a great relief to just admit it and head back home.  I’d rather take my chances with God than the zombie woman.  And home feels really good. 

* So I found out a similar idiom states that one can't "fight their way out of a paper bag."  So, to set the record straight, I could fight my way out, but once out, I would have no idea where I was.  

Seeds

Planting Day 2011

If my thumb had a color, it would be black. Some families have black sheep, but in my family I am the black thumb. Gardening runs in my blood, yet I absolutely stink at it. 

My Mee Ma and Daddy Bill had a garden that could feed an army. They had trees laden with fruit, and a field of Iris that would make you weep when they were in bloom from their beauty. Every year my  parents’ garden is meticulously nurtured and cared for by my mom and dad. It’s overflow of harvest is shared with neighbors. My mother’s rose garden should be featured in Southern Living.  It is glorious. 

And then, there is my garden. Dried up, neglected, with the only successful growth consisting of weeds. 

I should accept defeat. Every year I attempt a garden and yet I have never had one that I could brag about. I have never had enough harvest to share. I am a gardening failure. 

The problem is I LOVE gardening. I obsessively start planning my summer garden in the winter and count the days until the last frost. I spend hours wandering around garden centers (my happy place) and never leave empty handed.  I draw out schematics so that I can fit the most in the smallest space.  I mark out our planting day on the family calendar so we can have all hands on deck and I am giddy when that day comes. We get dirty and sweaty and when the garden is finally in, we celebrate and I daydream that this will be the year that I earn my place in our Family Gardening Hall of Fame. One can hope, right?

Recently I saw that the gardening gene must have skipped a generation.

These reminders kick me in the stomach. I can’t believe that 2 years ago Mark was here, vibrant, strong, beautiful. He was so determined to go live in Nicaragua that summer. And we were insistent that if he went he would offer the people there something of value. We didn’t want him to be one more American hanging out for the summer. So he asked what they needed and they needed a greenhouse. The fundraising was a daunting task for a teenager, but by the time he left for Nicaragua, he had accomplished it. 

He built the greenhouse. He planted seedlings. He never saw the reward for his labor. 

In June I joined the Norfolk Christian missions trip to Nicaragua. I had an afternoon off and we decided to go visit the orphanage that Mark had lived at when he spent part of his summer in 2013.  Knowing how harsh the storms can be there, and how limited the resources are, I really didn't even expect the greenhouse Mark helped built to still be standing. But Isaac, the house parent of the boys living in the Posada house (where Mark stayed) was eager to show me Mark's work and the teenage boys followed us in a pack eager to see our reaction. I prepared myself for the possibility that it might be abandoned, neglected and weedy...like my gardening failures.

But no. As Isaac showed me, it was flourishing.  Packed so full of tomato plants I could hardly walk in it.  Beautiful, vibrant and strong plants that would nourish the children living there and could potentially be a source of income.   

Mark built the greenhouse.  He planted seedlings.  He never saw the reward for his labor. But I have.  

The pride on the faces of the Posada boys was glorious.  Boys who have been abandoned and neglected, who would have no real future, no real training, no employable skills, were beaming with hope.  The future was on their faces.  That is the real harvest.  And they shared that hope with me.  I am quite certain that when Mark was pouring concrete and digging holes to build the greenhouse he had no idea what the harvest would look like.  No idea that it would be so much more than growing tomato plants...it would be all about growing people. 

"I want to love deliberately.  Selfless love makes incredible things happen."  Mark Rodriguez

God, today I pray Mark's prayer.  "Teach me how to love."

Fearless

I used to be fearless. 

But as I watch Will (15) leap from rock to rock in Acadia National Park, I think my heart will stop.  Everything in me wants him to sit down, to stop moving, to be safe.  Instead, camera in one hand, balancing with the other he scrambles over the rocks quickly and confidently until he stumbles a bit.  He turns to look at me with a wicked grin and I burst out "Will, please stop.  You are scaring me!"  "Mom, it's your PTSD.  I'm okay.  Chill out."  He's right, and I know it.  I have to stop watching him. I can't stop the surge of panic that now has taken up residence in my soul.  I hate this about myself.  I want to go back to the time where I didn't know that my child could die in a matter of seconds.  I want to be that mom again. 

Will pities me and slows down.  He pleads with me "Mom, come on. Stay with me.  I want you to see this.  This is good for you."  I hate when my own kid "therapizes" me.  He wants me on this adventure with him so he accommodates my pace.  Temporarily.

He sees some tidal pools below us and is anxious to get there.  He believes in me more than I believe in myself and quickens his pace.  I literally flatten myself against the side of the rock and barely keep it together as I say "Will, I'm going back.  I can't watch you...you are going to have to do this by yourself."  He is disappointed in me.  He thinks I am afraid of falling.  But I am not.  I have no fear of myself falling.  I am absolutely terrified that he will.   The mom "before" would have overridden her fear in order to keep up, but not this one.  My fear owns me today.  I tell him, tell myself, that this is temporary.  That I am working on it and that this is me getting better.  The fact I am even letting him do this is taking everything I've got.  This has been a year of meeting the end of myself.  I no longer have the will power to push through.  And while there are moments like these where I curse my circumstances and wish I could be more than I am, I am deeply aware that I need grace.  Grace to be broken, and afraid and dependent on a very Grace-full, Fearless God.  He is Enough.  I don't have to prove anything to anyone...not even to myself. 

I creep back to the safety of the larger, flatter rocks, and from a distance it is easier to watch Will because I don't feel his every movement.  I see him jumping from rock to rock as he pushes his body and commands the mountain.  He gets smaller as he goes down, down, and then he arrives at the place where the ocean crashes into the rocks.  He looks up...wondering if I might still be there and I wave at him.  Will is euphoric. I feel such a wave of joy roll over me that the panic is pushed away.   Will is fearless and in this I find great hope that I will be again someday. 

*Photography by Will Rodriguez

Though He Slay me

10:36 Last text from Mark: "Leavin now, be home in a bit"

How can it be here?  May 30, 2015.  How can this year have been so painfully slow and yet now it is over.  The mercy of time is that it passes.  It can not stay still.  If it could I would have frozen Mark.  I would have frozen him airborne, in his Batman mask as he launched himself into the pool.  I would have frozen Will, Daniel and Maria, screaming with delight as they waited for the splash.  I would have frozen Carlos and I, sitting on the screened-in porch, before the pain came.

But it can't freeze.  Time can't stop, and really would I have frozen us? I don't know who I will be in 5 years but I know that today I am a better person because of what has happened.  That seems wrong to say, as if Mark's death hasn't been the worst thing in my life.  But the crazy thing about God, is that He will take the worst thing and make it beautiful.  When I think of my heart now, I see a portion of it is black and dead.  It will never come back this side of heaven.  But the rest of it is now vibrant yellow and orange and joyful.  I have changed because of who God has been to me this year, and a lot of that is because Mark has led me closer to Him through his writings.

Our family loves each other better.  We look in each others eyes more and show each other more grace.  We are gentler to and more protective of one another.  I don't think I have ever loved Carlos more than I do today.

I have learned that intense emotional pain doesn't kill you even when you wish it would.  So I have realized as I run my errands with this pain, that there are walking wounded all around me.  That jerk in the grocery store?  He has a story.  That driver that cut me off? She has a story.  And I really, really want to hear it.

I have learned that the verse about "carrying each others burdens" really works.  On days (like yesterday) when I should have been a train wreck of sorrow, I felt light.  Others carried my grief for me and gave me a temporary reprieve.

But the greatest gift I have received is the intimacy I have with God.  I know His comfort now like never before.  I know His love because it has shown up on my door in warm food and in my mailbox, and inbox with notes and gifts.  I have learned through Mark's journals to sit quietly and listen for God's voice and watch for His gifts.  And not just in the 30 minute devotional time that I check off my "good Christian" list....but all day long.  It is a love affair, this relationship with God.  And because of that I notice the beauty that has always been around me that sings of His love for me.  I have learned that birds sing differently at sunrise and that the moon can shoot light beams across the sky like a cross.  That rainbows happen in the early morning just for me to see.

And I have really experienced that God does inhabit the praises of His people (Ps 22:3 KJV) And so, because I desperately need His presence, the answer to so many questions becomes very simple.  What used to be answered with "I don't know" becomes a resolved and often despairing "I WILL Worship."  What will I do on Mark's birthday? Christmas Day?  Mother's Day? It might be from a fetal position in a corner of my room, but I will worship.

So at 10:36 tonight, the time of the last text I received from Mark telling me he was on his way home, and likely seconds before he died, what I will do?  I will worship.  I will come before God and expect Him to show up, probably respectfully demand Him to show up (I am a very entitled, willful child) and He will, because He loves me.  I will offer a sacrifice of praise, likely with many tears and it won't be pretty.  I have the assurance that I will not be alone because God will meet me there....He lives in the praise of His People.  And I love to imagine Mark rocking it out with me just beyond the veil doing what he has always wanted to do.  His last text was exactly right.  He is Home.

The Extraordinary Ordinary Life of Mark Rodriguez

See the Book here.

Stay In It

THINKING IN POSTS (from www.markrodriguezphotography.com)

3.15.14

I recently read a post by a favorite singer of mine that really got me. She was talking about how she’d reached a point of shocking realization that whenever anything cool happened, she would “think in posts,” basically meaning she’d start composing a tweet or pulling up Instagram to capture the moment.

I can really connect with this. I have had many moments in life where I’m just in awe of God’s glory, oftentimes when I’m alone in nature or after being with loved ones. Those moments are so personal and sacred, but sometimes, as strange as it sounds, I kill them by beginning to devise a post in my head. I start thinking about how I’ll phrase it, if people will “like” it, if I’ll get any comments in response. And by the time all that’s done, the  moment is gone.

I’ve realized how simply sad it is to be a slave to social media. And I’m ashamed to say it, but I have definitely used Facebook and Instagram in the past as a place to give myself glory, to create an identity for myself that others will appreciate. And it’s such a bummer that there have been incredible, personal moments with God in my life that have ended as a couple hundred characters and a few hashtags just because I wanted to see what other people think of me, what they think of my life.

There’s a scene in the movie The Secret Life of Walter Mitty that struck a similar chord in me. Walter Mitty had been searching for this photographer Sean O’Connell the whole movie, and he’s finally found him perched up in a mountain, scouting for snow leopards through a lens the size of a cannon. Eventually, a snow leopard is seen through the lens, framed beautifully by snow capped peaks. Walter watches in eager expectation, waiting for O’Connell to take the shot. Finally, anxious that the moment is about to pass, Walter turns and asks:

“When are you going to take it?”

To which O’Connell replies: ”Sometimes I don’t. If I like a moment, for me, personally, I don’t like to have the distraction of the camera. I just want to stay in it.”

“Stay in it?”

“Yeah. Right there. Right here.”

There are so many incredible places and people all around me, so many blessings and moments that I can’t even fathom. When I stayed on an orphanage in Nicaragua for a month last Summer, I’d go out for these prayer times where I’d sit on a work bench, all alone, and just pray surrounded by ridiculous testaments to God’s wondrous ability to create. I remember one time I was just resting on that bench, relaxing in God’s presence, surrounded by beautiful mango trees that rustled as a light breeze filtered by. And I am so thankful I didn’t have my camera then, because there was overwhelming beauty all around me and nothing to take my attention off of it.

I don’t want to think in posts. I don’t want to be constantly checking to see what people think of my latest photo, or my latest status. Sometimes, I’ve just gotta turn off my radio, turn off my iPod, turn off my phone, and just be thankful, engaged with life and engaged with God. Because I know when I do that, I feel fulfilled in the most amazing way.