That Darn Holy Spirit

I was all set to write a really fun Thursday letter today. I was going to tell y’all all about Cousins and Sibling Weekend and how much fun we had and how much fun we are. (Just ask us and we’ll tell you—we are SUPER fun!) But the Holy Spirit seemed to have other ideas…

I didn’t like her ideas so I went running. Guess what? You can’t outrun the Holy Spirit.

Here’s the thing. I am one of those people who remember things vividly. Dates, times, places, what people were wearing, what music was playing, sounds, the whole nine yards. It is both a blessing and a curse. I get to relive in my mind some of the most wonderful memories, and I “get” to re-experience things I would rather bury deep deep down. Oh, and it also settles physically in my body—great fun! (said very sarcastically)

I ran; I argued; the Holy Spirit won. Reluctantly, here’s what She says I need to write.

Many of you know about our family’s journey with addiction and recovery. I am pretty transparent about most things, including this, but I can also say, very few people (possibly none) know all the details of what can only be described as the nightmare we lived for 5 years. We, I, pretended and pretended pretty well. Compartmentalizing became such a part of my life, I had to redecorate all the rooms over and over. Some of the stories I may never share. Unfortunately, I have the pleasure of remembering them in vivid detail. Sometimes I know the memories are coming…it’s like standing on a train track, knowing the train is coming and being frozen. You know it’s going to hit you, so you just brace yourself and get ready for the impact.  Today was one of those days.

July 16, 2019,  I was serving as chaplain for Junior High camp. Beginning at around 4 pm, I started receiving multiple calls from my son as well as other people. Things were falling apart in Louisville faster than a 14 story jenga puzzle. I was in Leitchfield, Ky trying to be present to the staff and campers while at the same time feeling like I was descending into hell. I snuck away to make and answer phone calls. Around 7:30 pm, while the campers and staff were getting ready for messy games, I was hiding in a building talking to my son. When we hung up, I knew with 100% certainty there was a very real possibility it might be the last conversation I had with him for a very long time, possibly forever. I felt both strong and resolute, and also completely broken. My heart was shattering into thousands of pieces, but I had to go outside. I had to be present for those to whom I was ministering, and I had to be strong for The Babies who were there on staff. And let’s be honest, I had to find a way to distract myself.

 

I walked out of the building, looked across the field, and saw a teensy tiny rainbow. I took a picture and posted it on FaceBook. This morning scrolling through my FaceBook memories I saw it, and I gave thanks to God for being present with me through those five years, on that night, and today. I gave thanks for my son who is still sleeping upstairs in our home. I remembered holding onto the smallest shred of hope. And I realized, again God is so much bigger and more powerful than we are. And it again gave me hope.

It gave me hope not just for my son, me, and our family. It gave me hope because it reminded me that God is ALWAYS present. God is present in this pandemic; God is present in this political divisiveness; God is present in the protests; God is present in hospitals; God is present in our homes full of isolation and pain; God is present in our joys and in our heartbreaks. God is present. Our faith, our faith which is defined as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) is what we can cling to as we navigate the days, weeks, and months ahead.

That phone call could very well have been the last with my son, and I know there are many people who have had that last phone call with a loved one, and it truly was the last. I can’t answer the why of that, but I know with all my heart, God is present in all of it.

I kept scrolling through FaceBook memories and saw that on this day 8 years ago, the Junior High campers and staff gave me the name Mama Doyle. My son was at camp that week…coincidence? Hmmm….