Family Matters

There is a famous “Pebble Beach” at Pescadero, California. Tourists from all over the world flock there to gather the round and beautiful stones. They are laid up in cabinets; they ornament parlor mantels. But go yonder, around the point of the cliff that breaks off the face of the sea; and up in that quiet cove, sheltered from the storms, and lying ever in the sun, you shall find an abundance of pebbles that have never been chosen by the traveler. Why are they left all through the years unsought?
For the simple reason that they have escaped all the turmoil and attrition of the waves, and the quiet and peace have left them as they found them, rough and angular and devoid of beauty. Polish comes through trouble . . . (Cowman, Streams in the Desert)
Polish comes through trouble! Hmmm. I guess on any given day, if I were perfectly honest, I would choose to remain rough and angular. I’ve never reveled in hard times. I can’t say I’ve ever shouted to my friends in the midst of a traumatic, life-altering event, “Hey, just wait and see how beautiful this will make me!”
In 2005, I lost my oldest son suddenly and unexpectedly. The roller-coaster struggles of his life—and the tragedy of his death at age 28—taught me a lot about myself and my ugly ability to cast judgment. I was afforded a box seat to his pained soul; and through it all, I learned how addiction is no respecter of persons or background or even those with intact, loving families. It changed me. My vision is much clearer now as I don’t wear the lens of condemnation. I think it made me more usable for God.
Two years later, my mother went in the hospital for a routine procedure and came out brain-dead. Her heart finally gave out a few weeks later. Mom’s death showed me that no matter how physically fit a person may be (Mom could leave me in the dust on the walking trail), and no matter what big plans we may have for the future (she had just enlarged her addition on my house, planning to move back from Florida for good), life can change in a moment. The loss rocked me as the wounds of grief—so neatly tucked away below the surface—reappeared. Mom’s death compelled me to think about my own mortality; it made me more sensitive to my allotted time with my children and grandchildren.
Then, just two months later, my youngest son was the perpetrator in an at-fault drunk-driving accident that took the life of an innocent man. I went from grieving loss through death to grieving my living son’s life as I knew it. Through that horror, I experienced firsthand how God could sustain me when I had no desire to hold on. I experienced a myriad of new things: the faithfulness of God; the grace of forgiving victims; and the beauty of redemption. Now, with a son incarcerated, I have learned that behind the face of every inmate is a human being who presents me with an opportunity to be the hands and feet of Christ.
Five months following the accident, my brother-in-law died. In the months preceding his death, in spite of the disease that was stealing away the life of this kind and vibrant soul, he could still brighten a room with his upbeat attitude and sheepish grin. His gentle demeanor never faltered, even when lying on his death bed. I got to see great ministry in action as his family rallied around him, taking care of his many needs. I learned what dying with dignity really means.
A few months ago, I lost my quiet, courageous, and loving father. It hit me hard, and I was submerged beneath a new wave of emotional insecurity: I was now a daughter without any parents. The day Dad was released from the hospital, as sick as he was, I never expected him to die one week later. I was busy cooking him a ravioli dinner like it was just another day. Why is it that even when death is imminent, we are still shocked when it happens? Dad never showed any fear of death: He wanted only to be reunited with my mother and to have his weary body at rest with the Lord for eternity. I miss him greatly.
I know my trials have changed me, transformed me, and “polished” me. I have learned through it all that when I cast my burdens on God and seek his signature on them—his will and his way—my load becomes lighter and my troubles sprout wings. These wings have enabled me to soar to a higher place of service that I would have missed if I had remained weighed down. While I would readily change any one of these circumstances, I would never change the effects that these storms have had in reshaping my heart.