On moving a mountain...

When I took on raising a wounded child, I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting myself into. 2 hour meltdowns don't scare me, the taunting and threatening words that come with Oppositional Defiant Disorder don't particularly worry me. And now that we have an antipsychotic to give him, I don't have to be afraid of his somewhat dangerous self soothing tendencies either. I'm not too proud to man handle my son to get him to cooperate, I can even do it with a smile on my face, because I learned a long time ago not to take my son's behavior personally. I can do all these things because I put my hope in the fact that God called my son by name, and therefor He has a reason for creating him just as he is.

But the other day, after a particularly frustrating 2 hour long episode, my son whispered words to me that were filled with such pain and hopelessness that my already weakened defense system shut down and I was a complete mess who couldn't take care of her family.

And I put this crazy desperate plea on Facebook for someone to pray cause I'm about two seconds away from walking my son down to Child Protective Services and handing him over with a smile and dismissing wave, because I was just done.

Done wrestling him into submission, done trying to prove that my love is bigger than his pain, and generally just done trying to move this mountain that is clearly not going anywhere. After 14 months of consistant, prayerful parenting my son still does not recognize me as an authority figure, and there is not a darned thing I can do to change that.

And the lies that Satan whispers to my son are slamming me in the face as well. He will never change, there is no hope for this one, just give up on him like everyone else did, every one of your Jesus loving friends would have done so ages ago. In short, this problem is a mountain that you are incapable of moving, because your problem is bigger than God's ability to fix it.

I'm not going to admit how many hours I allowed my spirit to wallow in those lies. I knew they were lies at the time, but knowing something is different than believing it. In order to believe it I needed a little perspective, and a whole lot of truth.

From the outside I have to admit that I'm a little ashamed that my heart ever considered those lies for a moment. From this side of the emotional breakdown I can recognize those lies for what they are and feel justified anger towards them.

I can even go a little bit Mama-bear crazy all up in their face, cause no one lies to Mama, and ain't nobody gonna tell me Jesus can't do anything He wants, including "fixing" my broken baby. And if I use my best imagination I can sort of imagine Jesus going a little Mama-bear over me and my boy, cause I know He totally did.

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