On my birthday, Friday, June 10, the judge told me to go home! I now have full access to my children with no restrictions.

It's over.

Thank you all for your continued prayers, love, and support throughout the past year. It's been an unbelievably difficult year, but God has sustained us with every breath. We truly are in the palm of His hands.

What can be done for an old heart like mine?
Soften it up with oil and wine
The oil is You, Your Spirit of love
Please wash me anew, in the wine of Your blood
-- Keith Green, "My Eyes Are Dry"

In so many ways I feel victorious in this season of life. I've gone from faith to faith, relying on God to be my painkiller, my salve. And God's been faithful, and I know He'll see us all the way through to the end of this trial.

Paradoxically, in so many ways I feel defeated in this season of life. I can't go one more day without my children, and I'm ready to do anything to be with them again. To hell with anything and everything, I want my kids.

But I know there are no shortcuts. It's like a game of chess in that no matter how much I want to charge ahead, guns a'blazing, I can't force checkmate. Pieces need to be developed, a strategy needs to be visualized, and precise tactics need to be employed. To that end I can say our motion to amend my conditions of probation allowing me to see my children was officially filed on Friday. It's highly likely now that we'll go to a full-blown hearing before the judge (a nerve-wracking possibility, for sure) to present our case. And since Brandi knows firsthand the turmoil our children have been going through, she's going to be, as our attorney says, "our star witness."

Coming to the decision to file a motion wasn't a no-brainer. Early on, we realized there were certain risks involved in exposing ourselves to the judicial system like that. The question was raised in our minds, When we go before the king, will he raise the scepter? (Esther 5:2). We needed to know what God wanted us to do, so we prayed and fasted for three days to that end, and I came away from that time of communion with God knowing that we were to proceed with the motion. I am not being hyperbolic when I say that I have never been more sure of anything in my life. We were to move forward; the peace of God had settled that in my heart.

Obeying God is still a challenge, and I'm not merely talking about obeying Him in the "big things." As one modern poet says, "Every day I die again and again, and I'm reborn." So it's a challenge every day, because every day I'm faced with the reality of a day without my children.

I've never known the truth of 2 Corinthians 12:9 until now. Whether I would have admitted it or not, to me that verse was a trite expression of a superficial trust in God for superficial wants in my superficial life. I know, though, that when JESUS says, "My grace is sufficient for you," He means it. When I am weak, I am strong.

I want to thank You now for being patient with me
It's so hard to see, when my eyes are on me
-- Keith Green, "Make My Life A Prayer To You"

For we ourselves were also once foolish, disobedient, deceived, serving various lusts and pleasures, living in malice and envy, hateful and hating one another. But when the kindness and the love of God our Savior toward man appeared, not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy He saved us, through the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Spirit. -- Titus 3:3-5

This week God's reminded me that I'm a loser, and I mean that in the most positive "He must increase, by I must decrease" sort of way. I'm thankful for His word and the counsel of His wisdom. Without His plumb line, I'm lost.

So many reasons to believe
I am so easily deceived
-- King's X, "Thinking and Wondering (What I'm Gonna Do)"

Last June, when I was checked into the Graybar Hotel, I read books like crazy. I was probably known among the inmates as the guy who stays on his bunk all day and reads. I did do a little fraternizing over the chessboard with my colleagues from time to time, but by and large my time was passed by reading the slew of books people were gracious enough to send me. I also spent hours upon hours in prayer and Bible study. It was like a 30-day spiritual retreat. Despite the circumstances, I loved it.

Like many things in life, jail is what you make of it. Guys inside talked about "doing your time right," meaning using your jail or prison time constructively, to grow as a person, to get a GED, to learn a trade, etc. While many guys talked like that, not many actually lived that out. Most people in jail are broken, addicted, desperate, evil, manipulative people -- the exact type of people JESUS came to save. By seeing up-close-and-personal realities of unchecked sin, I developed a deeper understanding and appreciation for the grace of God.

Taxpayers don't want to spend too much money on prisoner housing, so the cramped quarters of jail also mean that your physical proximity to other inmates is closer than what most people would be comfortable with; but that physical closeness also means there are many opportunities to actually talk to hurting people. I think JESUS would have enjoyed it.

The "tank" I was in was a 28-man dorm with a common day room, shower facility, and seven 4-man rooms known as "houses." A typical house was roughly 150 square feet, but, due to the way the tanks were designed, one house in each tank was almost twice as big as the six other houses, and it even had a semi-private toilet (the other houses had non-private toilets). I was fortunate enough to be in the larger house in my tank. When one inmate walked into my house for the first time, he said, "D***, what is this, a f***ing suite?"

Over a period of time in jail, you tend to associate with certain people. Of course, I spent a lot of time with my "cellies" (that's jail lingo for "roommate"). The de facto leader of our house was a guy named Alex McKenzie. Alex was half black and half Hispanic, about 5'9" with a shaved head and a muscular build. Like most people in jail, he had several tattoos. Everyone knew him as Alley Cat. Alley Cat was doing 7 months for battery. He was a confirmed Crip (one of the few in my tank since most others were Bloods or Gangster Disciples), a non-practicing Muslim, and an aspiring recording artist. A young man at 28, he had previously done seven years in prison (for what, I don't know), and, thankfully, he always made sure that house rules were enforced (e.g. always flush the toilet while you're urinating; clean the sink with a rag after you use it; keep the place swept on a regular basis; etc.).

Alley Cat was a sort of lone wolf. He'd gamble with the other inmates, talk to them quite a bit, joke around some, and spend time watching TV with them, but, by and large, he stood apart from them. (The way he put it, "I'll f*** with them, but from a distance.") Like most guys in the Slam, he didn't have a problem with using violence to make a point or to correct something he thought was wrong (he once beat another inmate when the inmate refused to pay a gambling debt: a hamburger lunch tray), but he wasn't a bully. He was highly respected because he was seen as a leader.

Alley Cat told me there were three rules anyone needed to know if they were to survive being locked up: "Mind your own f***ing. Mind your own f***ing. And mind your own f***ing." (In other words, mind your own business.) He was right. I liked him a lot.

Experiences like getting to know Alley Cat, spending hours upon hours in the Word and prayer, and seeing day-to-day jail life up close and personal really made a lasting impression on me. As we wait for news from BC, I find myself often thinking of all the Lord has brought us through the past 10 months. The ride isn't over yet, but His faithfulness is always comforting.

I have strange feelings these days. I feel like I'm happy and joyful that it's almost spring, because I really think something is going to break this season ... but in my mind I'm worried that what will actually break is me. I guess I'm teetering between courage and timidity.

The thought of being "bold as a lion" has been foremost on my mind, but deep inside I have anxiety, and maybe a little fear. The what-ifs can drive me crazy if I let them. And then there's my children. I miss them like I have never missed anything in my life.

I need to continue to take this thing a day at a time, one step at a time.

I keep pretty busy these days. Thankfully, I love my job, and I have as much work there as I want to do, so I spend a lot of time at my workplace. Here's my typical weekday:

6 a.m. - wake up
8 a.m. - leave for work/arrive at work
7 p.m. - leave work
8 p.m. - eat dinner, shower, hang with Brandi if possible
9 p.m. - read, blog, listen to John Piper sermons, etc.
10 p.m. - start thinking about bed
11 p.m. - definitely asleep by now

My days to see Brandi are Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday. On Thursday evenings I get to be home for a while because the kids stay at my mother-in-law's place on those nights. Also, every Thursday night I get to stay at the home of our good friends Gail and Rollin Mayes, who have been gracious enough to let me spend the night with them every Thursday evening. Yes, I'm nomadic to some extent.

It's not very exciting, but that's my schedule these days.

Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily, while it is called “Today,” lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. For we have become partakers of Christ if we hold the beginning of our confidence steadfast to the end ... -- Hebrews 3:12-14

I mediated on that passage a bit tonight.

Knowing that the commands of Scripture to hold our faith firm to the end are momentous, I find it difficult sometimes to balance both being honest with God about my lack of faith, and trusting in His magnanimity and goodness. The last thing I want to do is to depart from the living God, because even His common grace is still grace, and what is hell if not being separated from all vestiges of His presence? I need to hold on, all the while knowing that it's not me who's really doing the holding.

Robert, our UPS driver at work, had been out of pocket for months, but he finally showed up again on our route this past week. I assumed that he had simply been reassigned, but he told me that he had actually been sick -- very sick. Back in October he had developed a bump on the back of his head that grew to a large lump within 24 hours. After going to the ER, he passed out and was admitted to the hospital (I can't remember what the diagnosis was). After a few days of being under medication he slipped into a coma. The prognosis looked grim. Most people expected him to die, including his wife. But after seven days he came out of the coma, and his loved ones were relieved -- it was like seeing a man raised from the dead. He still had to go through a process of recovery and rehabilitation that lasted another couple of months, but as it turns out, the coma changed his life.

"Do you remember what it was like being in the coma?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, man. I saw some stuff," he responded.

"What did you see?"

"It was like my life was a movie being played out in my head. I saw all of the bad places I had been in my life, places I never should have been, and I kept thinking that God was telling me, 'You didn't walk away from those places; I carried you away.'"

His words moved me. His experience moved me. Just seeing his beaming smile made it obvious to me that I was talking to a man who was thankful to be alive. Joie de vivre was written all over his face. He must have felt like Lazarus. Having stood on the ledge of life, and looked out at such a cavernous death, Robert has got an eternal perspective that will be with him for the rest of his life.

I want that perspective. I want to hold the beginning of my confidence steadfast to the end, because I believe with all my heart I am a partaker of Christ. Exhort me to that end.

I met a friend for coffee last week. He had tea, actually, and then proceeded to tell me that he's fasting from coffee until I'm reunited with my family. He's a coffee fiend, not a casual drinker by any means. I feel loved.

Four days ago a friend told me, simply, "I believe in you." He's walked through a portion of this journey with Brandi and me, and to hear him say those simple words meant so much.

I have a friend who a few weeks ago told me, through streams of tears, "Seeing you go through this, trusting God, makes me want to follow Jesus more closely." Those tears invigorated me.

I have a new friend who emailed me a few days ago and said, "[J]ust seeing another brother walk in complete freedom from past failures, it gives a tangibility to Isaiah 42:3, and that's pretty stinkin' awesome my friend :)." Those words lifted my spirit.

I have a friend who makes the world a better place. Her radiant smile, love for our children, and passion for JESUS makes her a constant river of blessing in my life. "Like a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters" (Song of Solomon 2:2).

I have four little friends who wait patiently for me. How long, Yahweh?

I have a friend who believes in the Gospel of Grace so much that he lives it, eats it, breathes it, writes books about it, blogs about it, and never stops talking about it. Like Paul, he says from the depths of his being, "Woe is me if I do not preach the gospel!" I'm honored that he's walked with me for 20 years.

I have a friend who lost her husband 12 years ago. She was left with four small children to raise without a father. When I think about Brandi and our four children right now, I'm happy, for their sake, that God has not chosen to take me yet. When this friend compassionately and tearfully says she constantly prays for us, I'm thankful, because she understands the pain of separation.

I have a friend who's in prison. He committed a heinous crime, and now he's paying the state-mandated consequence. By all indications he's repented and accepted Christ's forgiveness. Thinking of him makes me think of God's grace, and how we all fall short of God's glory. The gravity of karma can't keep the scandal of grace grounded on earth, for grace obeys a higher law.

I have friends at church who are older and wiser than I am. I asked them the other day, half-jokingly, to show me how to be holy. They humbly said they're still trying to figure it out. They've walked with me for three years now, through repentance, life, pain, tragedy, and joy. I know they'll be with me until the end.

I have friends who, for me, in many strange ways, truly do represent the nexus of the intellectual universe. I've always thought that if I were in a rock band, they would be my bandmates. We've been together as friends for more than 12 years, and we've spilled a lot of ink together. I pray for 40 more years with you, my brothers.

I have friends -- deeply loved friends -- who I have not spoken to in months. I'm sorry for that. I'm a horrible initiator. God change me.

I have a friend who's my uncle, but who has always seemed more like a brother. I have a brother who's my brother, who has always seemed more like a friend. I'm blessed with a wonderful family -- my dad, my mom, my brother, my sister -- and I'm so joyful knowing that my four children, no matter what, will always have each other.

What a friend I've found
Closer than a brother
It would break my heart
To ever lose each other
Jesus
Jesus
Jesus, friend forever
-- Delirious?, "What A Friend I've Found."

He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces ... -- Isaiah 53:3 (ESV)

In a strange way, that aspect of JESUS' life -- the rejection, the sorrow, the grief -- is what compels me the most these days.

I woke up again this morning (at 5 a.m.) with my emotions rattled from a dream I was having about seeing my children. I looked over to Abigail, she was crying, and my emotions spiked and woke me up. I wish I could have stayed there.

As I tossed and turned, ruminating on my grief, I thought of Isaiah 53:3. It didn't make the pain go away, but it made me thankful that God simply knows. He knows suffering. The Father via the Son's suffering ("He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?"), and the Son was, as Isaiah points out, "acquainted with grief."

I'm alright now. But at any time during the day I can have a "Then I remember" moment. I had one yesterday at work, just sitting at my desk. I had to fight back tears and regain composure.

In order to deal with the pain of life, I have several needles to choose from: food, TV, games, books, sleep, the Internet, et cetera. There are some I've never been tempted to try; alcohol abuse and narcotics come to mind. There are some, by God's grace, I'll never go back to. Through it all, though, His pain -- His blood -- is the salve my wounds ache for. And by His grace I am hopefully "always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested ..." (2 Cor. 4:10).

The Son of God suffered unto the death, not that men might not suffer, but that their sufferings might be like His.
-- George MacDonald (via C.S. Lewis)

I recall driving away from my home on the evening of July 4th and being mesmerized by the pyrotechnics in the night sky above my beloved home town of Waco.

As I crossed the bridge over the Brazos River I took in all of the sights: the glow of downtown, the reflection on the water of exploding fireworks, and the throng of people who had gathered for the evening's spectacle. I also noticed, in the darkness of the water on the river, what appeared to be hundreds of floating lights -- they were everywhere, and from my vantage point on the bridge, I couldn't quite make out what they were. As my eyes adjusted, though, I noticed they were lights from what appeared to be dozens upon dozens of small boats, which had undoubtedly sailed over from Lake Waco to witness the firework celebration over the river while floating on the river itself. The lights, the people, the celebration -- it all smacked of joy.

Less than a week prior I had failed the most important polygraph I had ever taken. I didn't just fail, I apparently failed miserably. The polygrapher subsequently accused me of the most heinous of crimes as he grilled me to "come clean" and to "quite bull *****ing" him. He threw out the name of my county's top prosecutor, and told me I was about to become intimately acquainted with that person. He kept insisting that I tell the truth, grinding and grinding at me like a burr mill. I was horrified and, strangely, almost amused. You see, I had told the truth, but his faith in his machine made him sure that I was lying. All I could really lucidly think of at that point was my children, wondering if I would ever see them again.

I had anticipated passing that polygraph with no problems and being reunited with my children within a few short days. The failed "test" stomped on that dream like a roach underfoot, and I was left with the most uncertainty I had ever felt in my life.

I had no fear of the truth, though; by God's grace I had no fear. When I lived my double life (years prior) I guarded everything in my life with intensity. I didn't want anyone to rummage through my wallet, my cell phone calls, my text messages, my vehicle, my computer records, or my bank transactions, and I made darn sure that those items were kept safe from prying eyes. Since January 2008 -- that blessed month of severe mercy -- I couldn't care less if someone wanted to go through my records with a fine-tooth comb, and in the case of the authorities in my life, I wish they would be so thorough. How true I found these proverbial words to be: "The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion" (Proverbs 28:1).

On that night of July 4th, seeing the fireworks, the lights, and the people filled me with a sense of joy and hope. I had no idea what the authorities were going to try to do to me, but I knew that my family and I belonged to JESUS, and that ultimately nothing else mattered. As my dearly loved friend has said, the Gospel is the antidote to everything, and it was the Gospel of the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ that filled my uncertain future with the hope of an eternal weight of glory (see 2 Cor. 4:6).

As I once again saw explosive lights of celebration just two nights ago, I was yet again filled with hope. Yes, I'm still without the ones that I love, but I can still hear my rabbi say, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness" (2 Cor. 12:9).

For it is the God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us.

We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed -- always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body.

For we who live are always delivered to death for Jesus’ sake, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh.

-- 2 Corinthians 4:6-11

There are times lately where I've doubted God's existence, His goodness, or His provision. Interestingly enough, those times of doubt are always superficial; I'm a shallow doubter.

Like Thomas I've said, "Unless I see in His hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe."

How did JESUS respond to such obstinacy? "Reach your finger here, and look at My hands; and reach your hand here, and put it into My side. Do not be unbelieving, but believing."

Thomas appropriately responded, "My Lord and my God!"

I was thinking about that passage on Sunday morning. (Sometimes Sundays can be a challenge, since those have always been family days for us. As Johnny Cash sang, "'Cos there's something in a Sunday, that makes a body feel alone.") Well, this past Sunday morning at church, I felt JESUS again reassuring my soul, saying, "Reach your finger here." I felt like He was telling me to reach out my hand, to touch my brothers and sisters in Christ, because they are His presence here with me, and to "not be unbelieving, but believing."

I'm humbled by His mercy.

Yesterday I quoted 1 John 1:5, and essentially asked God how He can truly be light when sometimes all I see is darkness. I think His response, almost humorously, is found in John 1:5, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." (ESV)

I'm feeling better today. Sleepy, but recharged in many ways. Maybe it's all of your prayers sustaining me?

That's what it feels like right now, like all of life is covered with a blanket of darkness.

I feel a literal pain in my heart. Well, maybe it's not literally there, but I can't differentiate much right now between physical and emotional pain. Even pain isn't a strong enough word; violence might be more appropriate, bloody sadistic violence at that.

I want them back.

I think I dream about them every night, but I only remember my dreams about them two or three times a week. One reoccurring theme in my dreams involves me seeing my kids somewhere and having to hide from them so that they don't know I'm around. I woke up last night because in my dream Nathan recognized me and cornered me -- "It's Daddy!" -- so that I had no choice but to acknowledge him. I thought, To heck with it, I'm going to hold my son. Before I could even give him a good hug and kiss, the reality of the dream spiked my emotions so much that I woke up ... I was so sad that it wasn't real, so sad that I began to weep. Why couldn't it be real? Why can't I have 60 seconds with my children? What is that going to hurt?

"This is the message we have heard from Him and declare to you, that God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all" (1 John 1:5).

If that's true, why is everything black right now?

I've been thinking about this song today and how apropos it is to my life.

I have a lover
A lover like no other
She got soul, soul, soul, sweet soul
And she teach me how to sing
Shows me colors when there's none to see
Gives me hope when I can't believe
That for the first time, I feel love

I have a brother
When I'm a brother in need
I spend my whole life running
He spends his running after me
When I feel myself going down
I just call and he comes around
For the first time, I feel love

My father is a rich man
He wears a rich man's cloak
Gave me the key to his kingdom coming
Gave me a cup of gold
He said: I have many mansions
And there are many rooms to see
But I left by the back door
And I threw away the key
Yes, I threw away the key

And only grace can get it back to me

And for the first time, I feel love

U2, "The First Time"

I had Thanksgiving dinner at the Mulkey's home. What a treat it was!

When I woke up yesterday morning, the weather had gone from summer-esque warmth on Wednesday to a full-blown winter chill on Thursday morning. I stepped outside and was hit with a twinge of sorrow, as the suddenly cold weather really made the day feel like a holiday -- a holiday without my precious babies.

Then a thought -- from God, I believe -- occurred to me: Somewhere in this city there are people who are full of joy this morning because the weather has turned, and it's making the day feel more like a holiday.

After that thought, I was happy. I was actually joyful and thankful to be alive and thankful to be with good friends on such a special day. I was also thankful that my children were having a wonderful time at home with Brandi and the rest of my family.

He truly has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places (Ephesians 1:3).

I talked to someone last night who has grown up in a Christian context (though not evangelical), but seems to have no biblical knowledge whatsoever and no understanding of the gospel. By exterior appearances this person could be considered deeply religious, yet still lacking even a rudimentary understanding of the basic tenets of the Christian faith.

The encounter reminded me of my time in the BC jail, where everyone is a "Christian" but most don't have a minimal grasp of what that actually means. Most inmates kept a Bible by their bunk as a sort of talisman to ward off evil spirits, give their court cases a favorable outcome, and to sidestep an eternity in hell -- but if you asked them to look up John 3:16, they'd probably have trouble finding it.

The fact is the scales do not fall from anyone's eyes unless God makes them fall. The reason we choose Him is because He chooses us (Ephesians 1:4). During this season of life especially, that gives me great comfort. My heart is warmed by the fact that not even insignificant little birds fall to the ground apart from His will (Matthew 10:29).

So I'm left with a thankful heart. I'm thankful that it pleased God to separate me from my mother's womb and to call me by His grace (Galatians 1:15). And I'm thankful that, as the old hymn goes, "Jesus sought me while a stranger, wandering from the fold of God." As the psalmist says, our God is in heaven, and He does whatever He pleases.

So when I see blank stares from people whose minds are apparently "blinded, who do not believe, lest the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine on them" (2 Cor. 4:4), I'm often times filled with hope and awe, knowing that even someone's stubborn will -- or obstinacy -- is no match for the will of Yahweh. As Romans 8:28 says, "All things work together for good to those who love God, for those who are called according to His purpose."

My children are without their father right now -- He knows that, and He's using it for His glory. It's working out for good. I believe that with all my heart, because the light of the gospel shines brighter in dark places.

Nathan, Daniel, Abigail, and Evangeline, I love you all so much. I think about all of you, literally, every hour of every day. JESUS is with you, my babies.

Yes.

And that's what makes suffering so intolerable at times. There's nowhere to go. There's no eject button. No way to abort. All I can do is sit here and take it.

Isn't this what theologians have written about for centuries? Our classic understanding of hell: Eternal Conscious Torment. Sure, this isn't eternal, but it feels that way, so it may as well be. I'm certainly conscious. And this is definitely torment.

The real difference is I believe there is an end. I do hope, and I do see this as a "light affliction," knowing that "the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to compared to the glory that will be revealed in us." I hope in JESUS while I miss my children.

I don't just miss them, I see them. I see my children everywhere. Not in a literal sense, of course, but I feel them like they're with me, even though they're not. I feel them in the cold breeze, and I think about them running around in their winter jackets, laughing. I see them when the sun goes down, and I think about what it used to be like to drive home after work to my beautiful wife cooking dinner, and my treasures telling me all about their day. I see them in familiar places, places I've been to a million times over with them. I feel Evangeline's tiny little hand touching my arm. I feel Abigail riding on my back as I carry her up to bed. I feel Nathan jumping around as I hug him. I feel Daniel sitting in my office chair with me while I send an email. I hear their voices; their voices never go away.

I went to Wendy's the other day. I sat at the same table Daniel and I sat at on May 9. I sat on the side of the table that Daniel was on, and I glided my hand across the table and thought about him. I haven't seen him since May 26.

In the darkest times, I feel like maybe I stole those years of joy with my children. Maybe I never deserved them to begin with? Maybe that afternoon with Daniel at Wendy's was the sort of life I forfeited years ago without even realizing it? Thankfully the darkest times aren't the most common times. I have to hope, or life really isn't worth living. I was once without Christ, having no hope and without God in this world. "But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ" (Ephesians 2:13).

Is life worth living? Absolutely. Because I'm one day closer to being with my children, and one day closer to being with Christ for eternity. It's also worth living because He's meeting me right here, right now. His right hand offers pleasures forevermore -- and forevermore begins this very second.
Read the rest of this entry . . .

[In A Grief Observed C.S. Lewis used an initial to refer to his wife: H.]

It's not true that I'm always thinking of H. Work and conversation make that impossible. But the times when I'm not are perhaps my worst. For then, though I have forgotten the reason, there is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss. . . . So with this. I see the rowan berries reddening and don't know for a moment why they, of all things, should be depressing. I hear a clock strike and some quality it always had before has gone out of the sound. What's wrong with the world to make it so flat, shabby, worn-out looking? Then I remember.
-- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Aren't all these notes the senseless writhings of a man who won't accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it? Who still thinks there is some device (if only he could find it) which will make pain not to be pain. It doesn't really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on.

And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn't seem worth starting anything. I can't settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness.

-- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

C.S. Lewis is like a beloved friend of mine. Through all of my adult life he's been a source of wonder and encouragement to me, because he's a cerebral dreamer who could write a masterpiece for a child (The Chronicles of Narnia) as seemingly easily as he could write the most profound and weighty theological treatise (e.g. The Problem of Pain) and everything in between (e.g. The Screwtape Letters).

I remember being on my bed as a 17-year-old boy, reading the final paragraphs of Mere Christianity:

Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death, death of your ambitions and and favourite wishes every day and death of your whole body in the end: submit with every fibre of your being, and you will find eternal life.

Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. but look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.

Those words pierced me. I was a snotty-nosed kid, dumbfounded by the words of a dead British man. I still had many years of duplicity ahead of me -- stormy waters to glide over before truly submitting to death. But I knew the way, and Lewis had shown it to me.

And now as a 34-year-old man, his words mean even more. So when he talks about pain and suffering, I listen. He is my master, and I am his pupil.

I'll be in McAllen until Wednesday, doing a photo job. Please pray for my family while I'm gone. Thanks!

When I was in jail back in June, I had a hunch that BC might decide to just keep me there by revoking me and putting me before the judge. For the first couple of weeks in there I was stricken with anxiety on a daily basis, wondering whether or not I would get called to "booking" at some point. If you're in county jail and you get called to booking, it's not ever a good thing. Getting called to booking is tantamount to the authorities telling you that you need to report back to processing because something has changed in your paperwork. You don't ever want to get called to booking.

After being in jail for about two weeks, I was called to booking.

I remember being on my bunk and hearing the on-duty guard call my name through the intercom: "Get cleaned up. You're going to booking."

I'll never forget the feeling. I knew, without any doubt, that I was about to be revoked, and that I would likely spend at least 3 or 4 years in prison. My hands were literally trembling as I tried to brush my teeth and wash my face.

To get to booking from where I was you had to walk down a 200 foot hallway, handcuffed and escorted by a guard. I called that walk the Green Mile.

As I was walking the Green Mile, everything seemed surreal. My surroundings, the cuffs, the guard, the walls ... they all seemed like a dream. Everything was in slow motion. A funny thing happened, though. At that moment, walking that hall, I had an overwhelming sense of peace. I felt like JESUS was with me, and I could picture Him there with me, walking by my side. I was still scared, but I felt safe, I felt alright.

When I got to booking two detectives from my county were waiting there, wanting to question me. I quickly deduced that I was not called to booking in order to begin the revocation process, but I was called to booking so those detectives could question me.

They questioned me. I answered honestly. They didn't believe me, and they told me so. I told them they were wrong, politely. In the end they said they were just following procedure since they got a referral on me, and that they didn't have anything to charge me with. (I knew that already, but it felt good hearing them say that.) They released me back to my dorm. At that point I was full of joy; I had been called to booking and I had survived.

The detectives were not nice, but I bless them anyway. They were doing their job, and since I'm sure they've seen a lot of heinous crime during the course of their careers, I can't blame them for being jaundiced in their thinking. I can't say I would have acted any differently if I were them.

So I said all that to say I'm thankful and God is faithful. Even if I had been revoked, He'd still be faithful. His mercies are new every morning, and even in the lion's den, He's there.

Everything was going fine. I had just had a pleasant thought -- I enjoy life right now -- and within 60 seconds I started to think about my children. Less than two minutes later I was weeping.

That's how life goes these days. I haven't seen my kids since May 26. I haven't spoken with them since mid-August. That's the reality of life right now.

The last time I saw Evangeline she was 11 months old. Now she's 16 months old. Babies grow a lot in five months. In some ways, I feel like I don't know her anymore -- and she doesn't know me.

Brandi told me that her and the kids would be going to Mardel Christian Bookstore tonight. How I wish I could just show up there and hold them all for five minutes. That would literally be the happiest five minutes of my life.

I know that God has a plan and a purpose in our lives. But I'm ready for this pain to be over.

"Passing through the Valley of Weeping (Baca), they make it a place of springs; the early rain also fills [the pools] with blessings" (Psalm 84:6 AMP).

I ate dinner with Brandi tonight. I was a bit melancholy but she helped cheer me right up. She's good that way.

I just miss my kids so much. Nothing in life is the same without them. In many ways I've achieved a kind of normalcy in this season of life and I'm making appropriate adjustments, but I still feel like a wanderer. And I still sometimes feel a deep sense of loneliness. The burden of separation is a difficult thing to think about.

So I don't think sometimes. I work. I watch football. I read. I blog. I sleep. Because when I think, I feel pain. On the other hand, I know that the reality of this present pain will make the joy of reunion all the more memorable. But when is that going to happen? Blocked love is tantamount to excruciating pain.

I love my children. In Romans 9 Paul says, "For I could wish that I myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my countrymen according to the flesh." Yesterday I had a thought, Could I say that about my kids? That I could wish that I myself were accursed from Christ for their sake? Absolutely. It's comforting to know, though, that it's not up to me, but it's up to God. He'll perfect the work in them, and He'll guide us through this valley of deep darkness. Joy comes in the morning.

Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling,
And to present you faultless
Before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy,
To God our Savior,
Who alone is is wise,
Be glory and majesty,
Dominion and power,
Both now and forever.
Amen.
-- Jude 24 & 25

Thursday was a good day.

I had a routine meeting with my therapist and at the meeting I asked him if I could send letters to my kids. He picked up his phone, called my probation officer in McLennan County, and left a message to this effect, "Hi, [insert name here]. This is Dr. [insert name here]. I've got Eric here in my office and what I'm wanting to do is move him toward family reunification. The first step in that is allowing him to be able to send letters to his kids. What do we need to do to make that happen on your end?" So we await her response.

Now, if for some reason, BC comes back and says, "No, you can't write letters," then we'll have a valid argument with which to approach the judge: "Look, judge, my therapist -- the guy appointed by the state -- is saying I need to have some sort of contact with my kids and that I need to be moving toward family reunification. May we do that?" Of course, the judge could still say no, but with the professional therapist on our side, our chances are much better.

After my meeting with the therapist, I got the call from the mysterious stranger wanting to give me his truck. Not a bad day. The truck is the nicest vehicle I've ever owned. It's been well cared for and looks absolutely beautiful. I'm amazed.

On Wednesday (obviously, the day before Thursday), my former truck (which, in reality, is a small wheelbarrow with a 4-cylinder engine attached to it) had gotten a flat tire. When I was getting the tire fixed, I was overwhelmed with thankfulness. I thought, Thank you, God, for this little beat up farm truck. Thank you that it runs right now, and even if it breaks down on the way to work, I'm still so thankful for it and for everything you've done in my life. The sense of thankfulness was so overwhelming, I had to text a few people right then to tell them how I was feeling. It was great!

God is faithful. And even if I had never gotten the call about that truck, He'd still be faithful.

So the guy gave me the truck today. No strings attached. It's ridiculously nice and it's obviously been well cared for. I am humbled ... and very thankful.

Some guy I don't even know called me and told me, "Hey, I've got a 2001 Dodge Dakota I'm going to give you." Apparently he's a Lifegroup leader in the college department at Antioch. I feel numb with joy right now. :-)

If you're reading this and you have children, go hug them and tell them you love them.

I have a deeper understanding of the impermanence of life these days. I never would have thought -- ever -- that I would lose my children. Yes, I knew my sins were great, and that I would have to suffer consequences for them, but in my naivete I had never dreamed that I would be taken away from my children in such a way. The thought simply never crossed my mind. After my repentance in January 2008, I thought the hard part of life was over.

Last Sunday Brandi and I went to Dayton Black's funeral -- he was only 32. Dayton is the son of Richard and Cathy Black; those two have been exceptionally good and close friends to Brandi and me for more than 10 years.

On July 23, Richard and Cathy had me over to their home for a meal. It was refreshing to eat a home-cooked meal on a real plate with non-plastic utensils. After the meal Richard and I sat in his living room while I tried to express the pain and anguish I was presently going through. Richard's warm encouragement left me with a sense of well-being that night, and I walked away from his place a slightly better person. I was sharpened.

Only two months later, Brandi and I found ourselves at Dayton's funeral. How does that happen? How does someone go from life to death in such a short space of time? Dayton even joined Richard and I for a bit of conversation on that July night. I remember thinking back then, Man, this guy is huge! He could kill me if he wanted to. And it was true. He was a semi-pro football player, full of life and health -- the exact opposite of physical death. Now he's gone.

My problems seem so small in comparison to literal, physical death. How do you look a friend in the eye, a friend who just lost his only son, and say anything that makes any sense? "I understand your pain." No, I don't. "I'm feeling similar feelings, Richard." No, I'm not. "I know what it's like to lose touch with a child." No, I don't -- not in that way. My sons are still breathing. His is dead. Big difference.

Life truly is a vapor, and nothing is permanent. Only JESUS.

"He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Romans 8:32)

- Still trying to figure out everything about an attorney.
- Our kids (sans Eve) are in Houston right now until this weekend. We're leaning heavily toward telling them what's been going on, and why I'm not home. I think we may do that this weekend or early next week. We'll see. It'll obviously be Brandi who tells them.
- Most days are full of deep joy and deep sorrow.
- Please pray that something works out for us to have reliable transportation for Brandi. Her Suburban is broken (again!), and we're kind of at a dead end right now. If she doesn't have a vehicle she's essentially a single mom without transportation. Bad news.
- That's it for now.

I've had a tough time all day dealing with the dream I had last night about Daniel. We were face to face. I touched him. I saw his tears. I heard the strain in his voice as he said, "Daddy, I miss you." That little voice has haunted me all day.

In my moments of extreme pain, I'm inclined to start doubting the goodness of God ... at least temporarily. I've gotten to a place in my life where I know He exists; I have no doubt about that. "For His invisible attributes, namely, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made" (Romans 1:20 ESV).

As the great C.S. Lewis said in A Grief Observed, the real danger is not in ceasing to believe that He exists, but in believing horrible things about Him:

Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not, "So there's no God after all," but, "So this is what God's really like. Deceive yourself no longer." (Pg. 5)

Lewis penned those words shortly after his wife's death. (They had been married for only a little over four years.) I had read the book, partially, in 1998, and despite being a C.S. Lewis aficionado, it didn't resonate with me, so I quickly dropped it. Finally, when I was in jail I read the entire book in one night, and it moved me deeply. Lewis' grief was different from my own, but grief is still grief and pain is still pain. This time around, the book hit home.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep swallowing. (Pg. 1)

I'm not sure that what I'm going through feels like fear, though I can understand the connection. What I feel is a numb, obtuse pain, that frequently rises to the level of acute misery. I can live with the pain -- I feel God in the pain -- but I can't live with the misery. Thankfully, those moments where I "despair even of life itself" only happen every few days, but that seems all too frequent. Even in that pain, though, God is merciful. Still, in those moments, my mind and my heart can wander.

When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be -- or so it feels -- welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. (Pg. 4)

Sometimes life feels like that.

We had a difficult time last night. Brandi called me after 10 p.m. and told me the kids had a hard "we miss daddy" time.

They had watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie where Charles (their father) had to leave his family for a long time to go find work. The family struggled without him there, but by the end of the episode they were all reunited and happy. Brandi said when the episode was over, she thought everyone was alright but then Daniel started weeping, and all the other kids joined in. The whole incident lasted about half an hour.

Here's the thing, in light of what my therapist (see the blog post below) requested from us, we feel like we're in a holding pattern as far as telling the kids what the situation is. What makes things worse is they still think they can talk to me on the phone -- that breaks my heart. Nathan even said, "I'll call daddy tomorrow. That will make me feel better."

We need wisdom from the Lord. Despite the therapist's suggestion, we're both leaning toward Brandi letting the kids know some of the situation, and explaining to them why I can't talk to them on the phone for now.

I feel like I'm tied down, immobile, and my children are being tortured before my eyes while I'm powerless to do anything about it.

From Psalm 143:

For the enemy has persecuted my soul;
He has crushed my life to the ground;
He has made me dwell in darkness,
Like those who have long been dead.
Therefore my spirit is overwhelmed within me;
My heart within me is distressed. . . .

Deliver me, O Yahweh, from my enemies;
In You I take shelter.

I know God is actively delivering us through this fiery trial. I know that for His refining fire to take effect, we must go through times like this. This fire feels like hell, though.

Still, He whispers, My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.

I'm a blogger. I like the idea of a living, breathing journal that anyone in the world could stumble upon and interact with. I've kept a personal blog for two or three years now, and I've been involved with a venerable group blog since 2003 (see the link on the sidebar).

Being separated from my family has suddenly given me a wealth of free time, and I've been able to seize the opportunity to use my free time to pray, seek God, read Scripture, listen to sermons, read encouraging literature, and work. By God's grace I've spent very little time amusing myself with games, TV, or other distractions that can so easily demand our attention and make us wonder how we ever lived without them.

The sudden free time has also freed me to blog more often, and last week I felt compelled to begin this blog, Broken Vessel. The idea for this blog, and even the title of the blog, came upon me very quickly, and I was certain that the idea was from God. If nothing else, I pray that my children will read this blog years from now and know that during this time of painful separation they were constantly on my mind. I want them to know that I could not stop thinking about them, I could not stop weeping over the separation from them, and I could not stop looking forward to being reunited with them. I know without a doubt that the day I see my children again will be the happiest day of my life.

I used to look forward to weekends. Weekends meant family time, getting stuff done around our little farm, playing with the kids, and maybe catching up on rest.

I've found these days I tend to dread Friday nights, because the pain of separation from my family is simply more acute on weekends. For example, at almost exactly 5 p.m. this past Friday, I started to feel a deep sense of loneliness. (Even writing about it right now makes me somewhat sad.)

In those moments, I often think of Psalm 31:

I am a reproach among all my enemies,
But especially among my neighbors,
And am repulsive to my acquaintances;
Those who see me outside flee from me.
I am forgotten like a dead man, out of mind;
I am like a broken vessel. . . .

Yep, that's sometimes the way I feel, especially in those moments. I know the end, though. I know God's love trumps everything (Romans 8:39). Our Lord JESUS knew the end as well, but it didn't stop Him from sweating drops of blood in Gethsemane.

The fourth century church father, Gregory of Nazianzus, said of Christ's humanity, "Whatever has not been assumed has not been healed." In other words, Christ must have assumed a full humanity (sans sin, of course) in order to fully heal humanity and to fully identify with humanity. JESUS' full humanity gives me great comfort in times like this. Just knowing that He was tempted, abandoned, lonely -- that all comforts me.

His sufferings are like mine.