Butterfly Chronicles Volume 88: Are You Free to Fly?

"Sweet freedom whispered in 
my ear you're a butterfly, 
and butterflies are free to fly.

Fly away, high away, bye bye."

God gives them wings. They're not flying solo.

If only I could tell you every butterfly story...

I hugged my daughter desperately hard last night.  She's off to Florida for spring break.  Yeah.  I know all about Florida and spring break.  I went to Florida during spring break for a wedding. A girl jumped into our car and flashed her naked boobs at us. Yeah. Florida for spring break. We could've said no. Or, we can believe in the ways we've trained her up and trust God for His best for her. Zach's dead. Control freaking didn't save his life. What would you do?  I'm like an Olympics ping pong ball ricocheting back and forth over the net between panic and peace. He's either big enough or He's not.  Right?

So much bad news lately - back and forth over that panic-peace net.  Pain. Suffering. Wailing. Dementia, death, divorce, alcoholism, my own pathetic, pitiful failings, and more moms joining the suicide club.  From every freakin' direction.  All the time. I'm wearing a deep trail on both sides of that net.

Since Zach died, this has been the theme song of our lives. I'm talking about an avalanche of individual, REAL, in this very moment, people kind of suffering - up close and in my face, personal kind of suffering. The kind that humps my shoulders and makes me want to give up. The kind I can't fix. And don't we want to? Don't we want to fix the fall?

I know I don't have any right to answers or to even ask questions, but why?  Why did Peter M.D. tell me about the other mom who joined the club - a year ago - her son "suicided."  She came to see Peter the day before he saw me this week.  Why now?  Why this week? Peter told her about me. With her permission, he gave me her name.  He gave me her number. He said maybe our club could have coffee. He knows our club is small. Is God bringing this she to me or me to this she?  What is The Holy Weaver weaving?

News about my kids' piano teacher hit us this week too: diabetes, coma, ventilator, toes amputated.  A beautiful, sweet Christian - and her family gets this dance card. God allowed the orchestration of this grand ball for them to waltz in the company of Job. My God. My Savior. My Jesus. Gives permission.  And I am supposed to submit to this will that I don't understand while I fight the gurgles of panic, bitterness, bile, burning burps from my throat.  The only Pepto Bismal balm lives in His word.  I gulp it in great, gasping heaves.

Why is the news overwhelmingly ugly and sad?  I am not strong enough or brave enough or smart enough or Christian enough or faith-filled enough to carry these burdens, this flow of despair.  I am a GREATGREATGREAT sinner - negative, bitchy, doubting, judgmental, stubborn, hard headed and hard hearted, outspoken, filter-less.  I make excuses. I get so much of it so wrong.

     I'm saved.

Somehow He works all these things - the stuff of the fall, our failings, tragedy, and despair - somehow He works all these together for HIS glory.  His 2 plus 2 doesn't equal 4, but ALWAYS equals infinitely more.

There are brief glimpses of a flying, free freedom in the midst of the darkest dark.  Letting go.  Casting it all, each disaster, hurt, pain, one by one written, recorded on butterfly paper and buried in a box - the prayers. Not reliving them over and over by praying and taking them back and praying and taking them back, but giving them all at once to Him.  Relinquishing the cares to HIM - the problems cast on The Problem Solver. He doesn't need to be told twice. I write them down. I drop them in the box.  I'm soaring free in a moment of absolute faith, full of that supernatural peace which passes understanding. Fleeting. My faith muscles quiver and fail; I crash land.

But for a moment, a soul freedom sighs as I place the box top over the needs and prayers.  The freedom is in a kind of unadulterated innocence, a simple, child-like trusting that once I cast it, I need not take it back. He makes it easy. "Cast your cares." It's so easy - it's easy to forget how easy it is.  I cast those cares then act The Fisherman reeling them all back in to DO the doing rather than trusting in His doing of what needs to be done.

God pours this freedom on us telling us to go boldly to the throne of grace. Boldly:
* not hesitating or fearful in the face of actual or possible danger or rebuff; 
courageous and daring:
* not hesitating to break the rules of propriety; forward; impudent: 
*necessitating courage and daring; challenging: 
*beyond the usual limits of conventional thought or action; imaginative
Boldly!

Go boldly to freedom.  We wash freedom off, turn our backs, hold on tightly to our problems and live faithless - arrogant in the belief that our worry and fretting and doing can do the fixing. God, grow me in stamina to boldly leave what I've left at your throne - with You.  You are the Author and Finisher of our freedom, and You alone are The Fall Fixer.  God call to my mind the bold doing I'm supposed to do.


BELIEVE
      BE strong.
            BE courageous.
                  BE still.
                        BE a caster of cares.
                              BE FREE.
                                   BE JOY - FULL!
                                   

 Without Christ I am nothing.  With Christ I am only something when I give the doing over to Him - when I don't fly solo - when I put on His wings.  I pray you have Jesus.  I pray you find those moments when you've cast the care and are flying free on His wings. I believe in the God who has given Zach wings like eagles.  I long to soar with The Son and my son. We Christians are free to crash or to take full advantage of this life's flying lessons.  Every day with butterflies He reminds me I have His wings, and I am free to fly.  Fly away. High away.