I remember the day with vivid clarity. I was sitting in the music studio working on post-production for our latest live worship album, and my wife called.

At 3 months old, we had noticed something didn’t seem right about our son’s vision. He struggled to focus. To visually connect. His baby blues rolled uncontrollably outward and independent of one another. We initially chalked it up to infant muscle development, but the random comments and concern from others soon became too loud to ignore.

“He has optic nerve hypoplasia,” my wife soberly announced, a medical issue that results in the underdevelopment of the nerve that connects the eyes to the brain. In layman’s terms: if you and I have optic nerves the size of a garden hose, my son’s were more the circumference of a coffee stirrer.

The prognosis ranged from severe visual impairment to complete blindness, and possibly even brain development disorders.

I remember the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The involuntary impulse to try and find a way to take his place. But the impairment of Austin’s eyes was simply met with tears from mine own.

So we prayed.

I’m a life-long pianist, and a friend of mine made what was initially an awkward suggestion. “Set your son in his carrier underneath your piano at home, and play music over him in the dark after everyone else has gone to bed. Use your artistry as an expression of prayer to God for the healing of your son.”

So I prayed (and played).

The following song emerged from those late night sessions:

Healing Austin: Healing Austin

Almost six years later and I still can’t listen to that track without feeling the emotion. The agony. The questions. The quiet pleading. The desperation.

The worship.

And slowly but surely over the next five years, encouraging news began to emerge from the chaos.

• An initial brain MRI showed no abnormalities.
• Aging eye tests showed gradually improving visual acuity.
• Last year the doctor actually said, “I’m not sure I even want to call this hypoplasia anymore. His optic nerves now appear to be more on the small end of normal.“
• And this past Thursday, more to celebrate. In another year or so, Austin may not even need his glasses!

(Although I’m kind of partial on how good we look in them together).

I certainly give no credit to some “magic” musical skills. But I do give credit to my God. Something happened to my son. Is happening in my son. I can’t deny it.

It wasn’t instantaneous.

It’s been slow and methodical.

But God is healing Austin.

I can’t explain why we’ve experienced the miraculous while others still wait with more heartache than answers. Somedays I wish God was a replicable formula.

Dark Room + Urgent Prayer x A Beautiful Melody = Exactly What I Ask For

But I do know He still acts. He still responds. He still heals. Do you believe that?

How have you seen God tangibly respond in your life? What circumstances still leave you waiting in quiet desperation?

I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m mechanically challenged. Currently, I’m dealing with three major issues around my house:

1. The sensor on my garage is broken, forcing us to shut the door by hand.
2. The pilot light on my hot water heater only stays lit for about a half hour.
3. My gas trimmer won’t start (and really, who’s does?)

All of these are things any red-blooded American man should know how to fix easily, right? (while simultaneously playing catch with his son and watching MMA on pay-per-view).

I might as well be prepping molecules for nuclear fission (if that’s even a real thing).

But I struggle to ask. To admit I’m confused. Real men fix stuff, but somewhere along the way I’m pretty sure I missed that class. It’s less embarrassing to shut the garage door by hand, to take cold showers, and to let the grass along my fence line begin to look like Don King’s hairline.

But by not asking, I’m also not learning (and really starting to irritate my wife).

I fear we can do the same thing with God.

There’s a brand new school in the IPS Magnet program opening just up the street from CityCom. The principle is part of our church community, so we’ve had an up-close look at some of the subtle nuances of educational philosophy. Charity Dye is a “Center for Inquiry,” a concept that has moved away from simply presenting information, and focuses instead on the art of asking good questions.

What if we encouraged people to do the same thing with God?

The greatest transformation I’ve seen in our church community, comes from people who ask good questions. Not cynical, caustic, “prove you wrong questions.” Honest, sincere “I want to know Him” questions.

How was the Bible written?

Who was King David?

Why doesn’t Scripture seem to condemn slavery?

Was the fruit Adam & Even ate in the garden actually an apple?

How do I pray?

Yet sometimes I treat God like my garage door sensor. Like asking questions is a sign of weakness. A sign of doubt.

But questions mean we’re hungry. Questions mean we’re curious. And perhaps most importantly, questions place us in a posture of humility. God responds to humility.

Knowing God isn’t about knowing the most facts. Sometimes it’s about having the courage to ask the right questions. In fact, I might goes as far to say that if you’ve stopped asking, you’ve probably stopped growing.

What’s something you’ve been quietly wrestling with that perhaps you’ve been afraid to ask?

The scent of the Mother’s Day bouquet hasn’t completely disappeared from our kitchen. Just a few days removed from the celebration of all things maternal, I find myself in a coffee shop pondering the plethora of (mixed) comments I’ve received on our approach to Mother’s Day at City Community Church.

This year, the celebration of motherhood intersected week two of our new message series on pain (great planning there guys…nice forethought). But instead of diverting the trajectory, we decided to throw Mother’s Day into the tension and just admit….

…there’s a lot of unspoken pain on Mother’s Day.

Infertility.

Broken relationships.

Abandonment and abuse.

Guilt.

Death and separation.

The reality is, while many are celebrating with fancy hats, pastel dresses, bouquets of flowers, and family dinners, a lot of people are quietly mourning what they didn’t have, don’t have, or may never have.

A day of celebration. A day of mourning.

So we decided to talk about it.

We utilized a beautifully uncomfortable script penned by an old friend.  Julie has struggled with infertility for nearly a decade and a half, and “Mother’s Day Letters” takes a look at the wide variety of emotions people experience on this day.

The audio is linked here (it’s worth a listen):

Mother’s Day Letters

So much celebration. So much pain. All wrapped up into one day. What do we do with the tension?

We step into it.

I stumbled onto this tweet by Glenn Packiam, a guy I really respect, that sums this up pretty nicely:

“Glorifying pain is brutality; idealizing happiness is sentimentality; weaving grief and joy together is Beauty.” -Glenn Packiam

God is present in the celebration and the mourning. In the joy and in the grief. In death and in resurrection.

Which words best describe your Mother’s Day emotions this year?

Listen to the entire Everybody Hurts…Sometimes: Mother’s Day message by clicking here: message

We received some very encouraging news last night. Family court ordered our little Safe Families buddy (and his brother and sis) to be released from foster care into the custody of stable extended relatives. This is a huge development, opening the door for some beautiful possibilities:

• The kids are together and back with people they know.
• Under serious, real-life pressure, mom and dad seem more ready than ever to make some positive changes in their lives.
• Each Safe Family is being invited to act as an extended support structure for the parents and kids as they work with the Department of Child Services to try and move forward.
• We’re hopeful that we’ll able to see our little buddy again soon.

(If you don’t know the whole story, get the full details here).

I want to thank so many of you for praying (even with such sketchy details). We watched God respond to our cries for protection, peace, and restoration. He really does react to our sincere petitions, even when we can’t physically touch the situation ourselves. And I don’t think He’s done yet.

I also want to remind you of the most important thing I’ve re-learned through this whole mess:

When we protect ourselves from feeling pain, we rob ourselves of experiencing redemption.

I’m not always sure where the boundaries lie, but I know we have to embrace the tension. God really can make the crooked places straight. But to experience that miracle, we have to be willing to walk on treacherous roads.

For us, that meant intentionally going to find one.

Please keep praying for this beautiful family. I see hope.

Having children undoubtedly helps us understand God.

Don’t lie. There are days you wish you had the power to open the earth, commanding it to swallow those little boogers like a 6-pack of Chic-fil-a nuggets. Or you’ve certainly fantasized of forced walks through the wilderness until they were maybe somewhere in their early 40s (the ultimate SuperNanny timeout).

Come on, am I the only one?

This morning, my son marched boldly into my bedroom like he was holding a Presidential press conference on the unfolding Bin Laden saga.

“Anna’s just laying on the floor and not getting her clothes on for school.”

A familiar speech loaded permanently into the teleprompters of every human child. The only question is which kid will choose to access this morning.

Never mind his missing socks, un-tucked shirt, and hideous morning breath, Austin was proud to proclaim his sister’s shortcomings. He had something to point at. To compare himself to. And her obvious faux pas were drowning the fact he had completely ignored the voice of his father, too. He didn’t seem to notice the irony.

I, you, we’re no different.

There’s a time to step into the tension. To warn a sibling they’re blowing it. To correct, redirect, and challenge. No doubt.

But let’s be honest, most of us just like pointing out that our sister is napping because it helps us feel better about our own missing socks. And I’ve got to be honest, as a dad, that just ticks me off. I wonder how God feels? I only have three kids.

A thought I’ll pose for you to ponder:

What if we spent less time raising a ruckus about where others are missing it, and first made sure we were accomplishing all the Father asked us to do?

Just a thought. Do you agree?