Around Thanksgiving, my friend told me that one of her friend’s twins had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor. I felt sick. My son was seven, like hers. My other sons are twins, like hers. But the connection was much deeper than that.

Because of my depression, the walls between me and the rest of the world seemed very thin. I wept over this boy I had never met. And not just cried – I sobbed as though my heart were breaking. I prayed through my tears over his surgery, his subsequent radiation.

I rejoiced when his first post-radiation MRI came back normal.

And then my friend told me his second routine MRI had shown 17 tumors. The doctors had given him six months to live.

My heart squeezed tight, forcing tears.

The next Sunday, I went to church as I always do. And I cried, as I often do. After communion, I walked up to my friend Ann and asked her to pray for this boy, for his mom. “Life is so brutal,” I sobbed. I could not stop the tears. “Why does God not stop all this ugliness?”

Ann put her arm around my shoulders, her hand over my hand, and prayed. “Jesus, you receive each of Kimberlee’s tears as a prayer. You receive each beat of her breaking heart as a prayer. You receive each ragged breath as a prayer.”

She prayed for this boy, for his healing. Beside her, I wept my prayer.

“Amen,” she said, and held me a moment longer. Then she squeezed my shoulder and said, “What you feel is divine grief. What a privilege – what a gift! – to carry some of God’s grief for His beautiful, broken world.”

It did not feel like a privilege or a gift, this wrenching of my heart for a boy I have never known.

Ann gave me a small smile. “It is a gift,” she said as if she’d read my thoughts. “A severe gift, but a gift all the same.”

Now, when the tears come, as they do most every day, I offer those as a prayer, too, trying to trust that the Holy Spirit can take the groans of my heart that I can’t articulate, that I can only weep out, and make them prayers of faith on behalf of this boy and his mother and father and brothers.

And I keep praying, begging, for healing, for a miracle.

When I get my friend’s email that says the tumors are worse, despite the chemotherapy, I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the stomach.

Why don’t You heal him? I cry to God.

I’ve been to seminary and I know the correct theological answers to that question. But when it’s your child who is dying, who cares about theology? I want action. I want God to kick those tumors back to hell from whence they came. I want this boy healed, utterly and completely. And I believe God can do that (oh help my unbelief!). The trouble is, I don’t believe that He will.

I hope, I pray He will, but as I tell my friend Susan on another weepy Sunday after church, “I don’t have a lot of confidence in God right now. Oh, I have lots of confidence that God can heal. I just don’t have much confidence that He will.

“I’m reading the Gospel of Matthew with the kids,” I tell her, “and we just read the story of the blind man who comes to Jesus and says, ‘If you will, you can make me clean,’ and Jesus says, ‘I will. Be clean.’

“I keep praying those words to God: if You will, You can make him well.”

Susan says, “When I was in the hospital, those were the words I prayed, too. And God said yes.” She squeezes my hand. “Sometimes God says yes.”

I nod. “I know. He said yes to Ben. I just don’t understand why He doesn’t say yes every time.”

I look at Jack, at Luke and Ben, and I think, it could be them. Already one son has been at death’s door – and was spared. Who am I that my son should live? Who is she that her son is dying? There is no difference between us. We are both women who love our sons, whose hearts ache and break for love.

I have no answers. I have only questions and tears and prayers for a miracle, for this boy’s healing.

I suppose that is all I ever have: hope and faith and love.

On the day of our wedding, the reader board outside our church said, “Love Covers A Multitude of Sins.”

Underneath that was a pink construction paper heart and the words, “Congratulations Doug and Kimberlee!”

Doug laughed. He thought it was hilarious, the kind of thing you’d see after the end of an article in Reader’s Digest. I laughed, too, but only with my mouth. In my heart, I was terrified. I was sure I’d been found out. Someone knew.

They knew I wasn’t marriage material (whatever that is), that I was a liar and a hypocrite, that I was only pretending to be someone normal and functional and okay, someone who could be a loving partner in a marriage.

But I plastered a smile on my face and posed with my laughing soon-to-be husband for a photo next to the reader board. I was pretty good at pretending I was okay even when I was not, and I wasn’t about to let on that it scared me that someone knew that about me.

Eleven years later, I look back on that girl, and I want to give her a big hug. I want to tell her, “You aren’t as screwed up as you think you are” and “Relax. It was an innocent faux pas. No one was sending you a secret threat message.”

But it wouldn’t have mattered. That girl was determined to see herself through the critical eyes of the men at the Seven Oaks Country Club and through the even more critical eyes of their catty, mean-spirited wives. As Doug said to me during that first year we were married, “You won’t believe the nice things people actually say about you, but you believe all sorts of mean things nobody ever said.”

But somebody did say those mean things.

Me. And that chorus of critical voices I carried around in my head and projected onto almost everyone I met.

However innocent a faux pas those words on the reader board were, they were also prophetic. Love really does cover a multitude of sins. It’s taken eleven long years, but the dailiness of living with my husband, of living in the circle of his love for me, of slowly coming to see myself through his loving eyes instead of my own critical ones—this has transformed me.

Oh, the country club men and their nasty wives are still around, but I don’t listen to them quite as much these days. I tend to laugh when I mess up instead of freaking out that someone is going to find out and I’ll be a pariah. I’m more likely to own up to mistakes instead of hiding them or verbally flagellating myself for them. And I’m way more likely to tell the truth about who I am than hide behind a fake smile or a misrepresentation or even an outright lie.

It’s a process, of course, and I still have a long way to go on this journey into love and trust. But I am so grateful to my husband for loving me faithfully, even when I am unlovable, for walking with me these past eleven years, for holding my hand and covering me with his love when I am scared and insecure, when I’ve made mistakes and even when I’ve lied about it.

Love does indeed cover a multitude of sins.

Love makes us beautiful and worthy and wonderful in the eyes of those who love us.

And love, more than anything else, sees truly.

–an edited repost from the archives

I’m sure I’ll forget again, because you’re still tall and articulate and mature. But we’ve both grown up some this past year, so maybe I won’t forget so often. Or maybe you’ll rise to the occasion. Or maybe we’ll just muddle through and make the best of things: grace abounds in our relationship, in both directions, because your heart is large and my heart is for you.

As this new year of your life begins, these are some of the things I want to remember, my dear sweet girl, about the three-year-old you were:

All last fall, and through the winter until my belly grew too big, you fell asleep in my bed each night, lying on my chest. When I’d pick you up to take you to your bed, you’d wrap your little legs around my waist, your arms around my neck, and sometimes you’d sigh in your sleep, whisper “I love you, Mama,” against my shoulder, and I’d think every time I carried you that the weight of you in my arms was perfect.

You love to run. I love to watch you, the way your feet pound the ground, your legs pumping, your golden hair streaming out behind you.

You always mispronounce the word “pajamas.” You say “tajamas” instead. I’m dreading the day you outgrow this.

One night last month, when I came to tuck you in after I’d fed the babies at three a.m., you woke up just enough to say, “Will you cuddle with me right here for a little minute?” Though I was bone tired, how could I say no? I lay down beside you, and you put your hand in mine, and we both fell asleep.

On our daily walks through the neighborhood, you’re always calling, “Look, Mama!” and pointing out tulips in bloom or roses or dahlias or little johnny-jump-ups growing next to the sidewalk or the scarlet or yellow or sienna leaves of an autumn tree. “Isn’t it pretty?” you say. And I say, “Yes,” but I don’t say how grateful I am that you notice these things, that you’re teaching me to notice them, too.

Every once in a while, when I give you your bedtime blessing in the name of the Trinity, you tell me soberly, thoughtfully, “God is our Father in Heaven, and Jesus is God on earth, and the Spirit is God in our hearts.” And I wonder how you know this, who taught you, and how you came to be a theologian at the age of three.

Though I can’t hold on to the feeling of your hand in mine, I want always to remember that your hands are soft and warm and trusting when you slip them into my hands.

When you bought your first 200 piece puzzle, you cried because it was too hard for you – the first time, I think, that you couldn’t do a puzzle by yourself. Your dad and I sat down and helped you with it that first time. After that, you didn’t need us to help you anymore. But sometimes you wanted us to.

Every day for the past nine months you have faithfully prayed for your friend with leukemia. You pray for her at each meal and at bedtime, a prayer of thanksgiving for your friend and for God’s healing of her.

I also want to remember holding you while you cried because you’d fallen out of bed, or knocked your tooth against the arm of the sofa, or left your brand-new toy that you bought with your own money in the party supply store. I want to remember that you trusted me and that sometimes, I deserved your trust and responded to your pain the right way – with hugs and kisses and love and my own tears.

On the last night that you were three, you fell asleep in my bed. When I picked you up to carry you from my bed to yours, I noticed that you’d grown – a lot. Your legs around my waist were longer, your body was heavier. But the weight of you was still perfect.

I weary of the endless dishes and the still more endless laundry.

I weary of feeding the constantly hungry babies and changing their diapers and patting their bums to try to get them to go to sleep.

I weary of asking my kids to please clean up the Lego mess and the puzzle pieces that are strewn all over the floor and the piles of boxes and bottles that they’ve rescued from the recycle bin “to make things with.”

“What are you going to make?” I ask.

Jack shrugs. “I don’t know.”

But I digress.

I was speaking of weariness. Of how tiring it is to do the same things over and over and over again. Of how it often feels pointless. Of how I often wish I had a more glamorous life.

There was nothing glamorous about the pots and pans that Brother Lawrence washed day in and day out in his monastery’s kitchen.

And there is nothing glamorous in the pots and pans that I wash in mine. Or in the diapers that I change. Or in the peanut butter sandwiches I make.

But it is not the littleness of the work that makes my life feel wearisome. It is the littleness of my love.

So today, when I wash yet another pot and change yet another diaper and make yet another peanut butter sandwich, I will try to do these little things for love.

Because little things done with great love become great things. Possibly even glamorous things. Certainly glorious things. Because great love glorifies God.

And is this not our chief end? To glorify God and enjoy Him forever?

Yes. And yes. And yes.

Here’s to another load of laundry. With love.

Seven.

No longer my baby, you’re turning into a boy. I love the boy you’re becoming, but I miss the baby and the child you were.

I miss cuddling in bed with you in my lap, reading stories for half the day.

I miss long, slow mornings at the zoo, hours spent watching the peacocks, waiting for them to open their tail feathers.

I miss yogurt and applesauce on the front porch after your nap.

I miss the words you used to mispronounce and the way you’d say “Bam” whenever you didn’t know the answer to a question…or you knew and you weren’t telling.

I miss your lawn mower run, the way you’d jerk your right arm up and down like you were trying to start an old gas mower.

I miss chasing the recycling truck with you on spring afternoons, following behind it as it belched its way down the street.

I miss your little boy voice, the piping cadences and lilt of it that I can barely remember now.

I miss the softness of your hand in mine when we crossed the street.

Even though you’ve been healthy as a horse since we brought you home from the hospital seven years ago, I worry sometimes about you getting sick or, God forbid, dying. But what I’m beginning to see is that each day is a little death. Each day you grow a little older, a little further away from me. And that is natural and good. It is as it should be.

But I somehow didn’t expect it. They forget to tell you when you’re pregnant that motherhood is a long, slow process of letting go, a daily dying to what was in order to embrace what is. They forget to tell you how the heart breaks and breaks and keeps on breaking.

They forget to tell you how much it hurts to love a child.

But painful as the letting go is, I wouldn’t trade my years with you for anything on this green earth or for all the stars in the sky. I can’t say I’ve loved every minute of being your mom – there are quite I few I’d like to do over, for both our sakes – but I do love you. I love who you have been, I love who you’re becoming.

So even though, on this last day of your seventh year, I weep – because I miss you, because you’re growing up – even though my heart aches and the tears stream, I wouldn’t have it any other way. This ache, these tears say to me that my heart is still soft, and love grows in soft, broken places.

How else should I live, except by loving? How could I not want than a heart capable of deeper, richer love? A heart that holds you close and also lets you go? A heart that breaks with joy as well as pain?

It is my prayer for your life, too, my beloved boy: that all your days you will know the joy and the ache of loving.

I love you, Jack. Happy birthday.

Here, then, are the top ten reasons I love my guy:

10. He farts openly. This is very important. I grew up in a home where bodily noises were a normal part of daily life, but once I got to kindergarten I learned quickly and humiliatingly that such noises were taboo in front of other people. As I got older, I wondered often if I would ever feel as comfortable and unembarrassed with a guy (especially a guy I was dating) as I did with my family of origin. Well, I do. In fact, we are so comfortable and unembarrassed about bodily noises around here that Jane calls us the Tooter MacGruder family.

9. He loves to cook and bake. This, too, is very important because I love to eat. And I really love to eat food that someone else has prepared.

8. He’s a geek. With cool glasses. I’m not sure what it is about smart men in hip glasses that is so darn sexy, but there it is.

7. He laughs easily and often, and his laugh is contagious.

6. A corollary to #7: he thinks I’m funny. Seriously. I make him laugh on a daily basis. You have no idea how healing this is for a girl who grew up believing herself to be a little dark storm cloud.

5. He is interested in other people. I love the way he’s always bringing me stories about some guy he met who’s passionate about motorcycles or computer code or surfing or whatever. I get lots of great material and a glimpse into others’ lives because of my husband’s curiosity.

4. He is thoughtful, in all senses of the word. He anticipates others’ needs and tries to meet them. And he thinks deeply about ideas, issues, and especially his faith.

3. He believes in me. He believes in my writing and encourages me to use my voice. And he has never once made me feel bad about being a financial drain on our family. My writing “career” has cost us a fair amount of money over the years, but he believes in me and my writing enough to be willing to make that sacrifice. He even calls it an investment.

2. He is a great dad. I love watching him interact with our kids. He is patient and kind. He expects a lot from Jack and Jane, but he also gives them the tools they need to do what he expects of them.

And the number one reason I love my husband:

1. He loves me. I still think it’s little short of miraculous when the people you love love you back. And when they’ve seen you at your worst and still love you – well, that is a miracle.

Underneath that was a pink construction paper heart and the words, “Congratulations Kimberlee and Doug!”

Doug laughed. He thought it was hilarious, the kind of thing you’d see after the end of an article in Reader’s Digest. I laughed, too, but only with my mouth. In my heart, I was terrified. I was sure I’d been found out. Someone knew.

They knew I wasn’t marriage material (whatever that is), that I was a liar and a hypocrite, that I was only pretending to be someone normal and functional and okay, someone who could be a loving partner in a marriage.

But I plastered a smile on my face and posed with my laughing soon-to-be husband for a photo next to the readerboard. I was pretty good at pretending I was okay even when I was not, and I wasn’t about to let on that it scared me that someone knew that about me.

Ten years later, I look back on that girl, and I want to give her a big hug. I want to tell her, “You aren’t as screwed up as you think you are” and “Relax. It was an innocent faux pas. No one was sending you a secret threat message.”

But it wouldn’t have mattered. That girl was determined to see herself through the critical eyes of the men at the Belvedere Tennis Club and through the even more critical eyes of their catty, mean-spirited wives. As Doug said to me during that first year we were married, “You won’t believe the nice things people actually say about you, but you believe all sorts of mean things nobody ever said.”

But somebody did say those mean things. Me. And the little chorus of critical voices I carried around in my head and projected onto almost everyone I met.

However innocent a faux pas those words on the readerboard were, they were also prophetic. Love really does cover a multitude of sins. It’s taken ten long years, but the dailiness of living with my husband, of living in the circle of his love for me, of slowly coming to see myself through his loving eyes instead of my own critical ones—this has transformed me.

Oh, the tennis club men and their nasty wives are still around, but I don’t listen to them quite as much these days. I tend to laugh when I mess up instead of freaking out that someone is going to find out and I’ll be a pariah. I’m more likely to own up to mistakes instead of hiding them or verbally flagellating myself for them. And I’m way more likely to tell the truth about who I am than hide behind a fake smile or a misrepresentation or even an outright lie.

It’s a process, of course, and I still have a long way to go on this journey into love and trust. But I am so grateful to my husband for loving me faithfully, even when I am unlovable, for walking with me these past ten years, for holding my hand and covering me with his love when I am scared and insecure, when I’ve made mistakes and even when I’ve lied about it.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

Love makes us beautiful and worthy and wonderful in the eyes of those who love us.

And love, more than anything else, sees truly.

On Tuesday, I took my kids to the Space Needle: we ate lunch while looking out at Puget Sound from 520 feet in the air. Then we walked around on the observation deck. We found their dad’s work building, spotted two helicopters on the roofs of local news stations, and counted four ferries, two sailboats, and a barge on Elliott Bay.

When they’d had enough, we came back to earth and took the monorail into downtown, played on the escalators at Westlake Center, watched a makeshift elevator deliver building materials through the windows of a high-rise apartment building under construction, and took the bus home—where I promptly collapsed on my bed.

Jane fell asleep after a half hour of squirming, and a half hour after that, Jack, bless his heart, got his own snack. He even brought me spoonfuls of his yogurt—including the very last bite. Usually I would have said, “Oh no, honey, you eat it.” But I’d been thinking about receiving love, so I let him give me that last bite. Then he brought me strawberries (he even washed them!) and poured me a glass of apple juice. When Jane woke up, he got her a snack, too—without my even asking.

Jack abides in my love for him—it’s the foundation that secures his life—and that enabled him to give love on this day when I was weary and worn out. When we abide in Jesus’ love, we, like Jack, bear “fruit that will last,” the fruit of loving one another as He loves us.

The Lectionary passages for the 6th Sunday of Easter:
Acts 10:44-48
Psalm 98
1 John 5:1-6
John 15:9-17