Choosing to SEE Read online

  “Mary Beth, God allowed me, another mom, to have the dream for you. I think He knew that if He’d given it to you so early in your healing, you might wish you could just stay asleep. He wants you to know He heard you and that He even gave you what you asked, just through a means that might bless and do no harm in the long run.”

  It was as sacred a moment as I’ve ever shared with another woman. As it turned out, God did indeed use the dream to confirm what He’d already been saying to her. I knew that would be the determining factor for its legitimacy. I don’t believe God often cold-calls His children through others. He’s mostly a one-on-one kind of communicator with people who are apt to listen. Usually He employs others to confirm what He’s already been telling us or preparing us for. Mary Beth and I pledged to talk soon, then we hung up the phone, both, I feel sure, overcome emotionally. I have had many wonderful moments with God through the years when, for whatever reason, He’d grant a sudden revelation of His majesty, mercy, or love. These are times when, even for a few seconds, the veil almost seems to thin. I can’t think of many other times in my life, however, when I was more overcome with God’s flagrant tender mercies. All I could say on the way home was, “O, God! O, God! You, God! I can’t believe You just did that, God!”

  Stunned, I pulled up into my driveway and walked into the kitchen to a happy husband who greeted me with the usual, “Hey, Baby! Had a good day?”

  “Uh, yes. You are not going to believe what just happened.”

  True to form, my rugged husband cried. An unbelieving onlooker could reason that, to have a God who cared enough to orchestrate something like the timing of that dream, we’d have a God who’d never let such a tragedy happen to start with. These are places where God exercises His sovereign right to retain mystery. We cannot fathom the intricacies of the divine plan. But make no mistake, when we are in the driest desert, we can receive the manna to make it all the way to the other side where trees bud again and children laugh. God sometimes delivers us from evils we never see. Other times He parts raging oceans before our very eyes. Still other times He says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers they will not sweep over you. . . . Do not be afraid, for I am with you; I will bring your children from the east and gather you from the west” (Isa. 43:2, 5).

  April 27, 2010

  1

  Winter

  It was the day the world went wrong.

  “Beauty Will Rise”

  Words and music by Steven Curtis Chapman

  In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan,

  earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone

  Christina Rossetti

  The sky was a bright, springtime blue that day. We were planning a wedding and a graduation. We were happy.

  It was May 21, 2008. It didn’t look like winter – yet.

  We were the parents of six beautiful children, blessed beyond our dreams. Our twenty-three-year-old daughter, Emily, had become engaged four days earlier. Just the night before, we had bought her wedding dress. I had brought it home to show Emily’s three little sisters from China. Shaoey was eight, Stevey Joy was five, and Maria had just turned five a week earlier. They shrieked about the lacy white gown and all started talking at once about being flower girls at her wedding.

  On this particular Wednesday afternoon, Emily was at work, and Steven and I had converted the dining room table into Wedding Central. We had phones, laptops, calendars, and notepads spread all over the table. Caleb, our eighteen-year-old, was to graduate high school in a few days; he was messing around with his guitar in our music room. Will, who was seventeen, had driven over to his school to try out for a play. The three little girls were running in and out of the house, playing together like a thousand other afternoons.

  Maria ran up to me, breathless. “Mommy!” she said. “I can’t get Cinderella Barbie’s gloves on her! Can you do it for me?”

  “Sure,” I said. Maria climbed up on my lap. She was sticky and sweet as usual. She sat for a second while I tried to scoot the tiny, elbow-length white gloves onto Cinderella Barbie’s rubbery little hands. It was hard; no wonder Maria hadn’t been able to do it.

  Maria got impatient. There was fun to be had. She scooted off my lap and ran away giggling. As Steven and I continued to talk, I used my fingernails and tugged, eventually succeeding with the gloves.

  “Hey, Maria!” I yelled. “I got Cinderella’s gloves on her!”

  There was no answer, and I assumed that the girls had gone outside to their playground. They loved to climb on the monkey bars, swing, and pretend they were “the Chapman Sisters,” a famous musical group.

  Steven took a call on his cell phone and walked out on our front porch to get better reception. He saw Will arriving home and watched as Will slowly turned his old Land Cruiser into the driveway, which winds past the house to the garage in back, near the playground. I was sitting at the table, writing a list.

  Then everything changed forever.

  I realized I was hearing odd sounds outside – not just the yelling of happy play but screams and commotion. I bolted into the kitchen to head outside just as Shaoey ran up the back steps and met me there.

  “Mom!” she yelled. “Will’s hit Maria with the car!”

  I flew outside. Will was near the garage, holding his little sister in his arms. There was a lot of blood, on both of them.

  “Maria!” Will was crying. “Maria! Wake up!”

  2

  Not My Plan

  Love of God is pure when joy and suffering

  inspire an equal degree of gratitude.

  Simone Weil

  Obviously, I never planned to write this book.

  No mom can come up with words to express the ripping pain of losing a child . . . and no words can do justice to the mysteries of God in the midst of tragedy.

  When people ask how we are doing, the first thing I always say is, “I want Maria back. I want my son Will Franklin not to have this as a chapter in his story. I want my children to be healthy, my family secure. I don’t really care whose life has been touched or changed because of our loss!”

  That is the heart of a mother who lost a daughter and is determined not to lose another child. I believe God can handle my heart, my questions, and my anger. It’s okay to want Maria back. It’s okay to be angry. The question is, what do I do with it all? What do I do with God? In the midst of such heartbreak, do I really believe that all things work together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose?

  The answer to that question has come at a great cost. It has been agonizing to choose to see God at work through the tears of losing my daughter. I have, however, experienced the kindness, sweetness, faithfulness, and redemptive heart of God. I believe none of my tears have been wasted.

  So here I am, putting down these words one by one, because God has surprised me over the long days since Maria went to heaven. I have come face to face with evil and what part it plays in our lives, past, present, and future. I am realizing, though, that God is God, and He is purposeful in destroying what evil intends for harm. He is surprising me in good ways beyond what can be measured on this earth! I am living what I once only read in Genesis 50:20–21, where Joseph tells his brothers, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. So then, don’t be afraid. I will provide for you and your children . . . ”

  Even in this free fall of pain, I’ve landed on a solid foundation and my faith has held . . . on most days. I have learned that God is good . . . always. Hope is real. I have found – even in the awful pain of tears and grief so intense you think it will kill you – that my family and I can do hard. We’ll never get over our loss, but we’re getting through it. And so I have prayed that our journey through the shadows of loss might be of some help to those who have experienced similar pain . . . that our stewardship of this story would comfort many.

  But I n
eed to be clear. This book isn’t just about the spring day when Steven and I lost our precious Maria Sue in a terrible accident. It’s about a story . . . a story God is writing. All along the way, He has changed my story in ways I didn’t like. I’ve had whole chapters added and deleted and strange plot twists that I never saw coming.

  The truth is, I was born with a plan. I wanted life to be safe and predictable. My plan was to marry someone with a nice nine-to-five schedule and have a tidy, organized life – everything under control.

  Absolutely none of that came true!

  And if it had – if I had lived the life I thought I wanted – I know I wouldn’t have experienced the grace or the miracles of God in the ways that I have. What I’ve found is that it’s in the most unlikely times and places of hurt and chaos that God gives us a profound sense of His presence and the real light of His hope in the dark places.

  So this book isn’t so much about me and Steven, as broken and crazy as we are. It’s about God . . . and how He can comfort, carry, and change us on our journey, no matter how hard it is.

  My husband has always been considered the creative, public side of our marriage. Everyone loves him and people assume that I’m a lot like him.

  I’m not.

  Steven is an extrovert who gets his energy from being around people. He loves to speak – and speak – and speak – in front of large groups. I am an introvert who loves to nest at home with my kids. If I’m invited to speak in front of a gathering of people, I get so nervous I feel like I’m going to pass out.

  Steven is an optimist; I tend to be more melancholy. To him the glass is half-full; to me the same glass is half-empty. He is overflowing with great expectations; I’m sure that if things can possibly go wrong, they probably will.

  Steven would never think of pulling a practical joke; it’s not nice. I laugh and get all excited just thinking about playing jokes on my friends. It’s like a love language to me! The other night I took Shaoey and Stevey Joy, and we headed over to my daughter-in-law’s house. My son Caleb was out of town, playing a show, and I knew Julia had a friend over to spend the night.

  We parked our van, snuck around the back of the house, and proceeded to scratch on the window screens and knock on the walls. I could hear Julia and her friend running around in panic, and then it got real quiet. I decided we should go around to the front and knock on the door so they would know it was us.

  When my sweet Julia opened the door, she had tears on her face and the phone in her hand. I heard her tell the 911 dispatcher through her tears, “Oh, never mind . . . it’s just my mother-in-law!”

  I promised I’d never do it again, and I think she still loves me!

  Anyway, it’s obvious that Steven and I are very different, kind of like Tarzan and Jane, but we’ll get to that a little later.

  As long as I can remember, and throughout my twenty-five-year marriage to Steven, I’ve held on to certain expectations about life. But Jesus has always loved me enough to show me that even when I push my own ideas and expectations, He is there to guide me back to green pastures. He has shepherded me through the mountainous terrain of my stubbornness, shame, depression, and inadequacy and brought me gently back to the lushness of His love. He loves us enough to never let us go . . . even when it feels like He has.

  It wasn’t like I wanted a life that was unreasonable or questionable. My plans had to do with a Christ-centered ministry, an easy marriage, a peaceful and orderly home, constructive growth rather than shattered dreams, protection rather than fires . . . all good things. Still, God has turned my life, my expectations, and even some of my dreams completely upside down so many times.

  I hope that in these pages you’ll find a friend for your own journey . . . whether you’re in a good place, or in a place that’s hard, sad, mad, or desperately hopeless. In the midst of it all, God really is with us and for us. I have found that even during those times when the path is darkest, He leaves little bits of evidence all along the way – bread crumbs of grace – that can give me what I need to take the next step. But I can only find them if I choose to SEE.

  3

  Coloring inside the Lines

  You cannot amputate your history from your destiny. . . .

  My past is something Jesus takes hold of and

  makes into a destiny. That’s called redemption.

  Beth Moore

  Where I grew up, nothing ever changed. My dad, Jim Chapman (yes, I was a Chapman even before I met Steven), worked at International Harvester. My mother, Phyllis, was a stay-at-home mom who was so stay-at-home that she didn’t even have a driver’s license until after I got mine.

  Mom’s nickname, at least among us kids, was “Supervac” – not a speck of dust ever dared settle on the baseboards of our perfectly ordered home. My dad used to tell us to keep moving around, because if we stopped in one place too long, Mom might throw us out with the trash.

  Most of the kids I knew from kindergarten graduated with me from high school. Everybody was white. I never knew of anyone who got divorced. I assumed everyone else’s house was just like ours: our parents rarely fought or talked about anything unpleasant in front of us, although I’m sure they had their moments in private. Many things that presented great opportunities for discussion were often swept under the rug, where there was plenty of room because no dust would ever be found there.

  I grew up wanting to do everything right. I wanted somehow to be, well, perfect . . . as if that were possible.

  I was the youngest of three children, with a sister seven years older and a brother nine years older. Every morning during the summers, I’d hop on my glittered purple Huffy with bright plastic flowers stuck all over a fake wicker basket on the front, and I’d pedal off with friends. We’d ride all over the neighborhood and through a path in the woods, which came out at our elementary school. We’d play Barbies, ride to the ball fields and buy shoelace licorice, and have big water fights until the fire department blew their siren at noon.

  At that signal, all us kids would race home to eat bologna, mustard, and potato chip sandwiches for lunch – I loved crunching the chips in the soft white bread – and then get back on our bikes and go off to play until dark. We weren’t afraid of bad things happening. We had never heard of kidnappers. Our lives were safe and fun.

  My dad was a handyman who could fix anything. He changed the oil in our car every three thousand miles, like clockwork. We Chapmans knew there was a place for everything and everything should be in its place. From the time I was little, I knew how to work hard and put things in order, so I pushed myself to excel and make my hard-working parents proud of me.

  We went to church Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday nights. I still remember the flannel boards of Sunday school – all those felt animals lined up on the ramp to Noah’s ark, or Joseph and Mary and baby Jesus in the manger, or Moses parting the Red Sea. I went to youth camp every summer, walked the aisle, and got saved. Again.

  I was always confused. Did you get saved again when you felt like you’d drifted away from God . . . or was it a rededication . . . or what? I’m not sure whether it was the church, my work ethic, or a little bit of both, but I ended up thinking that the one thing that could change in my changeless world was my eternal destiny.

  Our church taught that you could lose your salvation . . . and so you never quite knew where you stood with God. I don’t remember ever hearing the concept of grace. A relationship with God was all about working hard and being as good as you could possibly be.

  Once when I was about nine years old, I was coloring in my bright pink bedroom with its variegated pink shag carpet and matching bedspread and curtains. I loved my room. My bed was always perfectly made, which was a challenge, since I had about a hundred stuffed animals that had to be placed on the spread in a certain sequence. I also raked my shag carpet, starting at the far corner and going all the way out the door, so that all the strands stood precisely on end, looking like no one had ever stepped on it.r />
  Anyway, one day I was coloring a giant Holly Hobby picture in my bedroom, and I was doing my best to stay inside the lines and make it as beautiful as I could. I was in the zone, trying my hardest. It looked perfect . . . until I made one little mistake.

  The more I tried to fix it, the worse it got. I felt desperate. It wasn’t perfect anymore. I started crying and felt this rage well up inside of me. Before I knew what was happening, I was ripping my picture into tiny shreds. Then I ran to my bike and rode as fast and as hard as I could. I didn’t even know where I was going. It was frustrating not to be perfect.

  I couldn’t live up to the expectations that I had for myself . . . and I knew that God must be disappointed with me too.

  My grandfather wasn’t perfect either, but in my young eyes he came close. He was a leader in our church, and I was amazed by how much Scripture he had memorized. I would sit next to him in church, sucking on a cherry candy my grandmother had given me and watching as Grandpa took sermon notes.

  Once he got bored with a sermon. Never one to waste time or be unproductive, Grandpa pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write. When he finished, he handed it to me and whispered, “Here, check me. See if I got it right.”

  It was the whole chapter of Isaiah 53. Grandpa was strictly a King James man, so for a little girl it took a while to maneuver my way through the “thees” and “thous,” but in the end there were no mistakes. Perfect. Word for word.

  When I got older, I’d sit with my grandfather and we’d drink Cokes from the bottle and eat Ritz crackers with cheddar cheese while we talked about theology. I had lots of questions, and by now I was brave enough to push my grandpa on our church’s stand on issues that I either disagreed with or misunderstood.

  “Grandpa,” I’d say, “so how does it work? Let’s say there’s a guy who’s a Christian, and he’s doing great, walking along the road one day, and then he sees this pretty girl with a great figure ride by on her bike. He can’t help it, this lustful thought pops in his head . . . and then, bam! He gets hit by a bus. Are you telling me that he’d go to hell because he died with an unconfessed sin in his heart?”