The fellowship of the broken-hearted
{From Oct 2017, right after our first two miscarriages and Jeff’s dad’s sudden death. I was just sitting by the river praying and this came to mind so I’m revisiting this again. It continues to encourage my heart.}
What is wrong with me??
I leaned against the kitchen cabinet, trying to keep the sobs silent. The kids played, oblivious. Jeff worked outside. I just couldn’t stop crying. I tried to text a friend, but a few words in I quit.
Too much. Don’t even know where to begin.
Another deflating disappointment, another super confusing complication that leaves me bewildered, wondering where God is leading all this tangle of seemingly dead-end roads.
I came upstairs, figured I’d put the clean sheets on the bed. Do the next thing.
And there, beside my bed, was my answer. To what was wrong with me.
Except maybe it’s not wrong.
There, beside my bed, I saw the display. My pregnancy book. My miscarriage book. The Pro-Life book. There’s a book on how to provide marriage counseling to those in need. To the left is a book on preparing your daughter for sexual and emotional purity. There’s a photo of my grandma, who passed away this past year. Underneath them all is a phone-book sized biblical parenting book that accompanies a video study. You can’t see the Intercessory Prayer book but it’s there too.
Each book represents an aspect of my life that tears at my heart, that weighs on me, that causes me to cry out in prayer, that, at times, keeps me awake at night. Each aspect represents a part of this past year, something we’ve walked through, or are walking through.
You’re probably familiar with these aspects too, and more.
None of them are cerebral studies. I’m not gathering data for a business presentation.
Each represents, in some way, a broken heart.
Friday night, Jeff and I watched Joan of Arc. I had seen it before, but I was struck afresh by this brave & broken-hearted girl who united France and died a martyr, because she cared.
To care is to cry. To break.
A month ago I spoke to a gathering of pastor’s wives. Before the conference, I was in the midst of yet another emotional episode, and I lay with my face to the floor and asked God how this was going to work, speaking to these women, when I was such a wreck inside. I heard, in my heart:
“The fellowship of the broken-hearted.”
Yes. Of course. Each one of these women, because they shepherd others, they lead, they love, and they lay down their lives … every single one of them lives with a broken heart. To care is to cry. To break.
My friend Christine always says, “Breakthrough comes through a broken heart.”
Certainly much of my own sorrow probably comes from selfishness, but in this particular situation I can honestly say it came from caring. Jesus was a man acquainted with sorrows, and it only makes sense that as we come to know Him more, as we walk His way, we will care more. We will ache more. We will hurt more. There will be victories. There will be hallelujahs. There will be mountain tops and glorious days. But if Jesus wept over Jerusalem, won’t we weep over our nation? If Jesus wept when Lazarus died, knowing He would raise Him, won’t we weep over the sick and disease-ridden, the ones who die too soon, the victims of violence, both born and unborn?
Maybe tears aren’t a symptom something’s wrong.
Maybe they mean something’s right because we care about what’s wrong.
I came back downstairs, did the next thing. Made dinner. While we washed dishes after, Shane & Shane came on Spotify and I heard Job’s words:
Though You slay me, yet I will praise You
Though You take from me, I will bless Your name
Though you ruin me, still I will worship
… Jeff gently pulled me into his arms–he’s part of the Fellowship too. Each word brought out the broken places and the tears flowed freely, safely, onto his shoulder. At the end of the song, I wiped my mascara-smeared eyes on his black t-shirt and SMILED. The true, genuine, hope-filled smile of knowing my Redeemer lives. And just then, another song came on, and as only Providence would have it, Housefires sang out a scripture equally true:
All Your promises are yes and amen!
Yes! Even in the broken-heartedness, His promises are ALWAYS yes and amen. This is not the end.
I love the prayer from Every Moment Holy, A Liturgy For Those Who Weep Without Knowing Why. It ends simply: “Use our tears to baptize what You love.” Amen.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
-Psalm 34:18
{Keep fighting, praying, caring. Have a great week dear friends. Thanks for reading.}
That prodigal’s dad
I’ve always read myself as the prodigal.
That story in Luke 15, we all know it. The prodigal son, though he was loved and provided for and had everything he needed, totally disrespects his father, takes off with his dad’s money, and lives in a way that breaks his dad’s heart.
I’ve always just read the story and seen the ways I do this. Little ways I run away, live for myself. And am reminded again and again that all repentance is, is coming home.
Of course I can see myself as the older son too. That pride that takes offense at the father’s lavish kindness on the undeserving younger son.
But I’ve never really considered what it was like to be the dad.
I guess I’ve always reserved that sacred role for God, and it is a picture of God. But it’s a picture of God to give us an example to follow ourselves.
Sit in the dad’s spot for a minute. What would you feel? You’ve given this boy everything. You’ve provided for him financially, you’ve taught him, you’ve loved him.
And in a sweeping moment of chilling disconnection, this son discounts all that, displays a complete lack of even recognition or respect, takes his dad’s money and his heart and runs off.
And here’s what I’ve never thought about before, yes it’s sad that the boy is off “squandering his property in reckless living” but my guess is what really broke the dad’s heart was that his behavior was completely contrary to everything the dad had taught him.
His behavior gave the middle-finger to the dad.
His behavior was like a direct message–I reject everything you taught me, I care nothing for all that you’ve poured into me, and I will waste and count as worthless what you worked hard so hard to earn.
Wow. I mean I’ve never thought about how hurt the dad must’ve felt. Right? How angry. Wouldn’t you be?
It’s interesting, we don’t know how long the boy was gone. It sounds like it was a long time. Long enough to squander all his property (ie. lose everything) AND for a famine to arise, and for him to eventually end up so hungry he’s eating pig slop.
In other words, God was doing His thing, bringing this boy to the end of himself.
And all this time, the dad patiently waited at home. It must’ve taken everything in him to not go out and search, to not go out and beat some sense into the kid, to not go out and take matters into his own hands.
The dad stayed home and let God do his thing. We know it from our own life stories, don’t we? God has a way of bringing us prodigals home.
And what’s beautiful is that clearly the dad attended to his own heart, because after all that time (years?) he hasn’t let his heart go to anger or resentment, because when the boy finally does return the dad sees and has compassion, and as we all know he ran toward the boy, embraced him, kissed him, and threw him a party. And his words are so telling:
“It is fitting to celebrate and be glad, for [the boy] was dead and is alive; he was lost, and is found.”
The dad had the ability to recognize–during that time the prodigal was living that way, he was dead.
We don’t get mad at dead people.
There’s no use hashing it all out or berating him with a barrage of reminders at all he’d done wrong. The dad knew God had already done what needed to be done.
It had taken years, but the repentance was real so the dad simply says, “Welcome home, Son. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I’m so glad the dad didn’t take offense, didn’t sit in resentment all those years, or conversely–didn’t go out and drag the boy home. The dad knew that real change has to come from a changed heart and the boy had to decide for himself who he was going to be.
He had to walk home on his own two feet.
Now that I think of it I know so many faithful moms, dads, pastors, mentors, spouses, who watch with aching hearts while someone they love does just as the prodigal did. I’m overwhelmed with respect for those who truly walk this out so well. I know a number of you. 🙂
And I love God’s Word that is living and active and always gives us what we need for each day.
Our God, our Father, is so patient. His compassion for us is unfailing. {Thank you for reading.}
Love puts up
{From April 2013. Had to share in honor of Friday’s marriage conference!}
“Love … puts up.”
-1 Corinthians 13
I flipped open the laptop–there on the keyboard lay the photo.
I shook my head and smiled, a little surprised at the emotion welling up in my eyes. It’s been 12 years of passing that thing back and forth, sneaking it into unexpected places for the other to find. Both book lovers, we had perused the small used book store at the beach as newlyweds, sorting through dusty titles, searching for some hidden literary gem. I don’t remember what we bought, but when we got it home, tucked within the pages was this polaroid picture.
Now it’s been tucked into places more times than I can count. It’s spoken a thousand words. We’ve tucked it in at times to say, “I’m sorry.” At times it means, “Just thinking of you.” And at times it means so much more. But whenever I see this photo it’s like another stitch, like pulling that thread taut and tugging so slightly, so all the stitches tighten. This picture reminds me of all the stitches over the years and pulls them tighter together.
And now, you’re away. This afternoon you drove off, and Heidi waved her little arm until we couldn’t see you anymore, and I felt silly for feeling so sad. It’s only a week, after all. But suddenly I remembered yesterday, how I had sighed (the classic victim-SAHM sigh) as I sorted through your middle pile. How I eyed you accusingly when you shelled pistachios right after I’d cleaned the counters. How I only half-listened this morning when you shared your idea with me. (How could I forget how much courage it takes to speak dreams out loud?) I remembered how you let me eat your french fries today and how you met us for a picnic when I’m sure you had more pressing things to do. And I remembered how you worked all afternoon fixing the lawn mower, and surprised me with Peet’s coffee for my trip this weekend. Then I remembered how I gave you the stink eye when you ate the last of the caramel corn.
How I left today without even doing your laundry. And how you said no big deal and cheerfully dug through the dirty clothes to find enough socks to wash and take on your trip.
Why do I love so pathetically?
I stared off, sad for all the ways I haven’t loved you more. But then, this picture somehow centered me. It always does.
Because you put it there and it tells me, all over again, that love covers a multitude of sins.
It is us, in so many ways. The faux wood panelling is hideous, of course, and I love it. The artwork is off-centered, and not in an artistic way. The purple and red pillows are delightfully strange, but the faces are the best.
He is Just. So. Happy.
His hand is on her thigh, his tie is huge, and he’s just grinning from ear to ear.
She, well, she’s half-smiling, but really thinking of what to make for dinner.
I am this woman, except I have better hair.
She’s putting up with the picture-taking (and him?) even though she’d rather be checking some ridiculous item off her list.
He’s just happy with his hand on her leg. The End.
He puts up with her half-smile just as she puts up with his beam.
And that’s the beauty of it: Love puts up.
Because not all romance is wild passion all the time. Because I put up with your stuff and you put up with mine. And because even though this couple isn’t running barefoot down a beach, their love is compelling to me. Because that’s just it: Love puts up. Because at different times last week each of us wanted to pack up and quit this ministry life. And both times the other one of us simply put up. Listened. Waited. Stayed quiet. Prayed. And both times we came around.
Because real love is so different than it is on TV. So much better. Because even the “putting up” part is good. It’s the time walking together in the valleys.
It’s the spaces in between the milestones, where you just keep holding hands and holding on.
Kind of like this:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (1 Corinthians 13:3-7 MSG)
Thanks for putting up with me, my love. I really am sorry about the laundry.
{Thanks, all, for reading.}
*Originally shared April 2013.
Because I don't want to be two trains …
{Originally posted June 2013}
This picture was taken 10 years ago today. (Um…. Could Jeff be any happier?!)
Neither of us cared much about a fancy wedding, so the flowers were fake, from Joann’s fabric, and the dress was borrowed from a friend. We married at my parents’ house–on a 95-degree day–and were surprised when we got to the cake-cutting part and discovered a three-tier wedding cake. Apparently someone made one for us because we had just planned on Costco sheet cakes. Surprise!
That’s kind of been the story of our life: Surprise!
We drove off into the distance, hootin’ and hollarin’ and thanking God we got to leave alone! We had waited for our wedding day to even kiss each other (Seriously.) All we really wanted was each other, so once the formalities ended we bolted for the honeymoon–17 days in Hawaii (!) thanks to my generous parents.
We had a blast. Everywhere we went people kept telling us to stop kissing. We did everything together, wondering why on earth people wanted to have “Girls’ night out” or “Guys night out.” Why would anyone want to be away from their spouse, ever??? We threw ourselves into the busy ministry life, ate ice cream together way too often and played card-games on the kitchen floor late at night, always dreaming big for our life ahead, together.
We were, in every way, ONE.
Shortly after our wedding, we attended a funeral together. I have no idea who died. A friend of a friend of a friend, perhaps? I don’t even remember why we were there. But the guy who died, whoever he was, was a big deal. Maybe in politics or something? I can’t remember. But he was a big deal, and she was a big deal, and a lot of people were there because they were a big deal.
And when it came time for the wife to speak, she talked about how they each had own life. He had his life and she had his, but that it was good, their marriage like that was good. She said,
“We were two trains running on parallel tracks.”
Everyone nodded and smiled, as if in agreement about the beauty of two trains running on parallel tracks.
After the funeral Jeff and I made our way to the car. Once inside, we looked at each other. Jeff’s spoke my thoughts:
“Babe, I don’t want to be two trains running on parallel tracks.”
Those simple words have haunted me ever since. At that point, it was easy to be one. We did everything together, just us, fun crazy stuff, making memories and laughing all the way:
We traveled to Israel, swam in the Dead Sea …
…and rode camels together, holding on for dear life.
And then we really held on for dear life, because after visiting some friends in Boston we …
…(SURPRISE!) had a baby!
And everything changed.
I remember this night, when Dutch was six months old. It was our first “night out” together, just us, at a wedding at Steve Ballmer’s house in Washington (Thanks, Jeremy & Mari). We had just moved in with my parents, left our jobs, and were finishing seminary. So many things had been stripped away. And that night we danced on the boat dock, laughed ourselves silly, and finally awoke from the fog of 2am feedings and dirty diapers. We adored our son but this was good … and the time together was that much sweeter, because we’d walked through some struggle, together.
And at Mom and Dad’s, I’m smiling here but didn’t smile much in those days. Despite my wonderful parents I was so down, so often. Hard, long days with a baby, and no car or phone and Jeff was gone a lot and we with no money and no job and no idea how on earth the future would work out. I smiled here, but so often I cried. But he held me fast and one day came home and said, “I bought you a little something. For $13, I bought www.karipatterson.com.” And my darkness found light, and my thoughts found words, and this little blog began and my soul found space to breathe.
And then, “Surprise!” Heidi came. And I had wept because what would happen? And we needed an income and health insurance and where would we live? And one by one God provided everything–the job, a temporary home, and–crazy miracle–the “coincidence” of double-coverage for a 2-week period: Right when she was born. And we laughed ourselves silly at His provision and then five days later I cried myself to sleep as the house that we were renting sold and it meant packing up these babies and moving (again!) and where would we go? And we sat that night at Carl’s Jr. (don’t ask me why) and ate french fries and wrote down on a napkin, “We trust God.” And we wrote the date and carried that napkin everywhere, just to remind us. That no matter what: We trust God.
And we walked that rocky shore, both kids in tow, and smiled at the future. He’d be in it.
And He did come through, again. Those generous Dombrows opened their home, and then the apartment, and then the “dream home.” And we moved in and life was perfect and we were living the dream. And Kimberly Stone took these family photos and it was the one strangely quiet time of our life–like the calm before the storm.
Then I wore the cap and gown, then he wore the cap and gown, and we donned our hoods and finally ended the long trudge through seminary–us both tired but glad we did it.
And then, things got crazy again. The Hole In Our Gospel turned our world upside down nothing looked the same and my dream life wasn’t dreamy anymore. But in that wild ride He changed us and gave us unity and strength, and we met up with World Vision and that trip up there, to Seattle–it was for the best thing for us. Reminding us we were one, together, not two trains but ONE.
And we started pursuing a simpler life. We moved to our dumpy rental on Hazelhurst Lane, picked berries and quit keeping up with the Jones’s, whoever they were.
And then this year we took another flying leap of faith, planting RENEW Church, welcoming our housemate, and moving (our 13th time in 10 years!). And it was hard and good and I was writing e-books and working on the real book, and speaking and traveling and life was just so full. And you planned the special trip, just us, to the Church-Planting conference, and when we arrived at the airport at midnight and we’d missed the hotel shuttle so — surprise! — they sent us a limo instead. We sat in the green light in the back of the limo, reminded again we don’t want to be two trains.
But honestly … it’s hard.
We’ve jam-packed a lot into ten years–13 moves, 8 combined years of seminary, 4 different church ministry jobs, church-planting, two kids, blogging, book-writing, speaking, traveling … we sat down just a few days ago, a bit of painful reflection as we realize:
It’s all too easy to be two trains, running on parallel tracks.
Life is so full and we serve and love and answer the phone and meet the needs and run the errands and fix whatever’s broken this time on the house. And if there is one nugget of truth we’ve gleaned from these ten years it’s this:
It’s a lot easier to just be two trains than it is to truly be one.
It’s easier to just be partners. Have a business relationship. Serve each other and raise the kids and get the job done, but marriage isn’t a picture of a business partnership —
It’s a picture of crazy romance and unparalleled love. The love of the Son for His bride, the church.
And so together, today, we’re committing afresh to that love. To turn again to one another. To pursue one another, not just getting stuff done. To laugh more and do a little bit less.
We’re committing to a shorter list of things to do and a longer list of things we’re grateful for.
So, dear reader, thanks for letting me share this–a short history of our 10-year journey of marriage. I am a most imperfect wife loving a most imperfect husband, and we commit afresh today to this thing called marriage–a picture of Jesus’ extravagant love for us.
Perhaps you may commit afresh today too?
And now, would you bless me? Would you share with us the best Marriage Advice you have received? Either from your own experience or that someone has shared with you? We’d LOVE to read your thoughts as we celebrate our anniversary this weekend. THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading! And Happy Anniversary, my Love!