We hike single-file. For a change, I lead the way. I am exhausted, moody, yet eager to soak in what could be the last nice day of autumn. Joel, our youngest son, as always in the middle, walks slowly, tentatively through the leaves, afraid of tripping on a root. My husband Wally brings up the rear. Joel’s constant chatter has subsided and we are quiet, our feet doing the talking as we scuff across yellow carpeted forest floor.

I hear Joel’s footsteps quicken, turn to see him approaching at a near-run. Surprised, I stop. He grabs my hand, looks me in the eye, grins, and pulls me forward. I wait for him to drop my hand, as he always does, but instead he squeezes it and swings my arm, his grin widening at my delight. For a moment, it feels so right, his hand a perfect fit in mine. A jolt of joy shocks my body, answered almost immediately by my mind, which says, no, don’t go there. There are no happy endings with 26-year-old sons with autism. There are no happily-ever-afters when they move away from home and you are left, not with “this is the way it’s supposed to be,” but with guilt, and sleepless nights, and often, regret.

Joel holds my hand tight, matches my gait stride for stride, steals sideway gazes, his eyes playful, a smile flitting, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t, across his handsome face.

For a month he has been constant motion, constant chatter. Lashing out at staff with hands. Walking, running, walking, running around the 60 acre farm, for adults with autism, he moved to last year. Behavior staffings once a month, charting aggression. Manic swings, which we thought he’d left behind with adolescence, erupting again, keeping him awake at night, keeping everyone in his house on edge.

Dreams die hard. It will never be what we expected, our third son’s adulthood. You think you’ve moved into a place called acceptance, when yet another transition takes place and you grieve it all over again. Letting go of this son is nothing like letting his brothers go. That was the natural, normal progression of life, something to celebrate, knowing you did your job as a parent, giving them roots and wings. This feels like an amputation, so deep is this son’s need, so intensive our care-giving, a quarter century’s worth.

Joel’s hand, still clutching mine, is warm and sweaty. I leave my doubting, monkey-mind behind for a moment. Become pure body, pure hand, pure connection.

Friends tell me I must cut the cord, not hold so tight to this broken boy-man. But this connection—this fleshly hand in mine—tells me what my gut already knows. This cord is a living cord, a cord of flesh-and-blood. Unlike an umbilical cord, this cord can never be severed. Yes, like the towering maples and beech along this trail, we will go through fallow seasons. Like this past year, with his move away from home, a seeming death for him, for me, for his father.

Every October I mourn the passing of summer. Dread the dank days of winter to come. I want to stay pure hand, hold onto this moment forever. But my head calls me back to remind me that spring always follows winter. Spring, when the sap flows upward, bringing with it new life, new possibilities, new ways of being.

This is what is true: I am his mother. He is my son. And we are walking up a hill, hand in hand, through sunlight streaming golden through a canopy of maple and beech.

(This story appears, in an edited version, in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Raising Kids on the Spectrum, available at www.amazon.com

Buffeted by ocean tumult
Crucified on timeless beach
Buried by storm and sand
Risen whole
Exposed by tide
Bleached by sun
Carried home as talisman
Lesson in adversity

Delicate
as baby’s breath
Brittle
as old woman’s bone
Weightless
as Christ’s presence
Powerful
as confessed weakness

Flawless flower
etched on orb
Hollow center
cradles dove
Strength in weakness
Christ in me
His grace
sufficient

A deep stillness hung over the woods as I walked, its peacefulness gradually permeating my spirit. My black lab, Poco, ran on ahead, nose to the ground, snuffling in the snow. A loud crackling and crashing in the underbrush to the right of the path broke the silence. I stopped. Leashing the dog, I listened, peering intently into the thicket from which the sound originated. It sounded like something big. Was it a deer? Perhaps a fox? Poco strained against the leash. A flash of red, a hint of gray – and a fat robin hopped out of the bushes, looked at me quizzically, and continued making a lot of racket in his search for something to eat. Definitely not what I’d expected. I smiled, said hello, and raised my eyes to walk on, only to have my gaze arrested by the large and luminous eyes of a doe.

She stood, still as a statue, maybe twenty feet away, her tawny coat blending perfectly into the brown and gray backdrop of beech trees and bare brush. Surrounded by mist rising from the melting snow, she appeared otherworldly. Only her eyes, wide and watching, witnessed to her lifeblood and vitality. Her beauty took my breath away.

A gift, freely given during this chance encounter in the woods. Jumbled thoughts fell into place. The suffering and pain that enters our lives is like the crashing and thrashing of that robin in the underbrush. It is the noise that stops us in our tracks. Pain, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, sends a loud message: Slow down! Pay attention! We’re forced to put everything else aside in our attempt to decipher the source of the noise; in our endeavor to make sense out of seemingly senseless suffering.

At first, our attention is focused on the brokenness. Where did it come from? Who is causing it? Why me? Why my loved one? How do I get rid of it? Gradually, when we stop struggling to find an answer, when we simply accept the fact that this broken place is now a part of our lives, we begin to sense a presence. Like the doe encountered on my walk, it is a presence of great calm, great beauty, great power and great mystery. Although we sense the presence, in order to see it we must turn our full attention; heart, soul, and mind; toward it. When we do so, we discover that it is Christ himself, waiting in the midst of our brokenness

Today is Good Friday. Some of us will use this time to reflect on Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, and what they mean for us personally. But many of us, in our rush to get to Easter, will dash past Good Friday and the image of Christ dying on the cross. After all, we think, we are a resurrection people. We want beautiful crosses; empty crosses of gold, burnished copper, polished walnut. We shield our eyes and spirits from the gruesome details of death by crucifixion.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes, “Our God is a suffering God.” Jesus’ suffering on the cross is central to understanding the character of God. A God who never gives up on us; who loves us, broken, disobedient and sinful people that we are. A God who loves us enough to send his Son into the world as a living, breathing, human being; a man who, although fully divine, experiences all that it means to be human, including the capacity to suffer. A God whose power is displayed through weakness.

In the words of Paul , “…We preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God” (1Cor. 1:23-24). Jesus Christ, the power of God; Jesus Christ, the wisdom of God; God’s power and wisdom displayed through Jesus’ broken, crucified body. It is through Christ’s suffering and death on the cross that we can be assured not only that we live as a redeemed people, but that our God stands with us, cries with us, suffers with us, in the broken places of our lives.

On Good Friday we are given a new opportunity to meet Christ at the cross. Find a time to sit in silence. Contemplate the suffering He took on for you. Share your broken places with Him. Cry out to Him. Cry with Him. Allow yourself to simply wait, with open hands. The Lord has a gift for you. He stands in the shadows. Do you see Him? His beauty will take your breath away. He is speaking through the pain. Will you take time to listen?

Those were the words, spoken to me in a dream last year, by a wise woman I call “Macrina/Judi.” Macrina is Macrina Weiderkehr, an author who has accompanied me on my spiritual journey for the past ten years. And Judi is Judi Dench, the actress. In this particular dream, I knew the person speaking to me was Macrina, but she had the face and voice of Judi Dench.

God does have a sense of humor!

This morning, I am practicing Lectio Divina, sacred reading of the Scriptures, with Macrina’s new book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God. The scripture for today is Philippians 3:7-16. The verse that catches my attention just happens to be the same verse that Macrina chose to highlight.

“Christ Jesus has made me his own” (v. 3b).

As I sit in the silence with that verse, repeating it over and over, a recent dream rises to mind.

I approach a wounded bird. It is a sandhill crane, with a huge wingspan. The bird is on the ground, and someone else (my husband?) is attempting to care for it. I want to tend to this beautiful, wounded bird, so I continue my approach, my hand held out in a gesture of peace. The terrified bird flails around, its great wings beating a tattoo on the ground. I am afraid she will be hurt in her frightened fury. I stop, and whisper, “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here to help. Stop struggling. I’m here.”

The crane eventually abandons her struggle, and I stroke her graceful, feathered neck.

As I sit with this dream, I wonder if I am the wounded bird or the person tending to her. As the mother of a son with autism, my wounds are deep. Many of these wounds have healed over the years as I’ve come to a place where I can accept my son just as he is. But some of the wounds have re-opened in the past 2 1/2 years, since we moved Joel from our home to a farm for adults with autism. I find myself unable to surrender him to God for safe-keeping. My mind spins, constantly, with worries and fears and concerns for his safety, for his happiness, for his overall well-being. After all, who can care for my son as well as me and his father?

Yes, I believe I am the wounded bird, flailing and thrashing, afraid to let even God close enough to tend to my wounds.

But am I also the one tending the bird? My son is wounded. This move has been difficult for him, and I am trying so hard to comfort him. To let him know he will be okay. That I am still here. I will always be his mother. I will never abandon him.

I get up from my meditation chair to google “crane,” to see what this dream symbol might mean. Birds themselves symbolize our goals, aspirations, and hopes. Cranes, in particular, symbolize happiness, maternal love, and gestures of good will. They are a symbol of looking out for those you love. Cranes can also symbolize a person’s strength, uniqueness, or individuality, and also, persistence through challenges. They may be telling you that you have too much of one of these qualities, or could benefit by being less this way.

I go back into the quiet, asking God to reveal what He is saying to me through this dream. This is what I hear with the ears of my heart:

“Yes, Kathy, you are the injured crane, flailing around with worry and anxiety about your son. You have been so strong all these years—always the caregiver. You have persisted through many challenges. But now is the time to stop struggling. Simply “be” in my presence. I am here. You’re okay. Lean into my presence. Again I say, stop struggling. You will injure those beautiful wings. Those wings represent your aspirations, hopes, and dreams for the future. You were meant to fly. Remember when Macrina/Judi told you she could teach you to fly? I am the author of your dreams. I sent Macrina/Judi to you with that message.

This is the way to learn how to fly. Spend more time in the Word and in my presence. Be with me, Kathy. Stop struggling.

I have made you my own. I gave you those wings. It’s time to let go. It’s time to fly.

“Who would like to lead us in some Christmas carols?” John, our pastor, stood up front with the microphone, trying to marshal everyone’s attention. It was Christmas Eve, and excitement filled the air.

“Joel’s a really good singer,” Amy called out.

Joel grinned and walked toward the front of the church.

“You want to lead us, Joel?” John asked.

Joel’s grin widened as he grabbed the microphone. Wally strode forward and stood beside Joel. “How ’bout We Wish You a Merry Christmas?” he asked, knowing this is one of Joel’s favorites.

Joel smiled his agreement. Wally started the song and Joel joined in, singing the words softly into the microphone, a bit off tune, but sweetly and clearly. When he finished, everyone burst into applause. Someone in the back cried out, “Encore! Silent Night!”

This time, Joel led the congregation with confidence, his voice cracking a bit on the high parts. I sat, glued to my chair, my head filled not only with the sound of Joel’s amplified voice, but with a chorus of angels singing Alleluia!

I continue to rejoice as I watch this church extend grace and love to each and every person who walks through the door. Janet*, who has an emotional disability, regularly bursts into spontaneous prayer at the end of worship, taking us all to the throne room. Brian, who has Down syndrome, regularly walks up front to ask for prayer for people he knows and loves. Dan, who is blind, plays in the worship band. His service dog lies next to Dan’s drums, his tail keeping the beat.

This church does not have a formal inclusion program. It simply lives inclusion. Each and every person who comes through the door is accepted for who she is—her gifts are celebrated. If he needs accommodations to be successful in worship, we figure out a way to make it work. If she needs a ride to church, someone picks her up. If he can’t eat pizza because allergies, we order gluten-free. I believe this is the way God wants it to be.

This year I received the very best Christmas gift of all, at church, on Christmas Eve. This present didn’t come gift-wrapped in foil under a shining tree, but in a small, poorly lit storefront church. The Body of Christ, where so many parts of the Body are so often missing, had just been re-membered. And heaven itself rejoiced.

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year from Our Family to Yours!

Kathy, Wally & Joel

Excerpted from Perfectly Whole: Spiritual Direction for Parents of Children with Disabilities, Kathleen Deyer Bolduc (Judson Press, Release date March 2014). Names have been changed

I sank into silence to be met by images of being fed. I first saw a mother nursing a baby. I then saw my father and I on a long-ago picnic next to a river. He kiddingly tried to feed me a worm. The story goes that I was ready to eat the worm—at the age of three, I would do anything for my daddy! But he tickled me, made me laugh, and gave me a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich instead.

Suddenly, I was in Psalm 23, walking beside still waters, and God my father was walking with me. This poem emerged.

Psalm 23 (A Paraphrase)

The Lord is my father
He gives me everything I need
He leads me beside a gently flowing river
He restores my soul with a smile

Even though darkness closes in
I am not afraid
I relax in his presence
I know he will never leave me alone

He spreads a red-checked tablecloth
Before me on the bank of the river
He opens a picnic basket full of food that I love
Sushi, grapes, a bottle of wine and two glasses

He places his hands on my head
Looks me straight in the eye with that disarming smile
His anointing flows through my body
Spills over the cup of my soul

Most certainly, without a doubt,
I will live with my father forever
This grace a part of my day-to-day life
My father’s spirit encamped within my heart

“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.” (v. 7)

In the dream, a group of friends and I are gathered on lawn chairs in a horse-shoe shaped field, ringed on one end by houses. It is a beautiful night, the rural sky inky-black and star-studded; the summer air soft with a humid breeze. The sound of crickets ratchets up the noise level of a quiet evening. I get up and walk into the nearest house for a cup of tea.

Walking back into the night as I sip my tea, I look up and see an army of angels encamped around the field. They stand in a semi-circle, just beyond the houses. They remind me of cornhusk angels you find at craft shows just before Christmas, except they are 20 or 30 feet high, and they are awesomely alive.

Immersed in conversation, the rest of the group remains unaware of the angels’ presence. “Look!” I cry, pointing upward and outward.

“Oh yes. The angels. I summoned them,” my friend Barry says nonchalantly. As if it’s no big deal. As if he summons angels on a daily basis.

How often have my husband and I prayed a “hedge of protection” around our home—around Joel’s home at Safe Haven Farms—around Matt’s home in Oxford—around Justin and Elizabeth’s home in Clifton? How often have we prayed this prayer as we’ve climbed into the car for family vacations, sat on planes waiting for lift-off?

Oh yes. The angels. I summoned them.

“When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles.” (v. 17).

Looking back over the past 30 years, I think of our prayers for a retreat center in the country—one near a university, close to a state park, with a big expanse of sky in front and a wooded area in back. A little cottage surrounded by gardens, with a circle drive dotted by out-buildings. This vision came to fruition a year or two after the dream of the angel encampment in that field of houses, and I am amazed at how similar the scene is to where we are living and ministering today.

“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. O taste and see that the Lord is good! Happy is the man who takes refuge in him! O fear the Lord you his saints, for those who fear him have no want!” (v. 7-9)

My mind moves to Safe Haven Farms, the place we’ve dreamed of for years – before, and especially through, Joel’s tumultuous adolescence – a place where he could spend a majority of time outside, with animals, living in a community that would remain long after we pass away. The transition has been difficult, Joel’s anxiety has sky-rocketed at times, behaviors increased. But we believe this is where God has led us, and we’re working with a team of professionals to assure Joel’s happiness and success. The houses on his farm are set up in a semi-circle, a circular field in front of them. There is a huge expanse of sky before them, and woods behind. The setting closely resembles my dream of the angel encampment. Fifteen people with autism live in these houses, work in the gardens, care for the animals. Many of them suffer from anxiety, as does Joel. Some of them need help with the most basic of tasks. And here they are, learning to live in community.

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous; but the LORD delivers him out of them all. He keeps all his bones; not one of them is broken.” (v. 18-20)

As I read through this Psalm again from beginning to end, I am reminded once again that the Lord saves us out of all of our troubles—He delivers us—we can take refuge in Him—He answers our prayers—He is GOOD—we lack no good thing in Him—His eyes are always toward us—He hears our cries for help—He is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit—He delivers us of all our afflictions—He keeps all our bones—He redeems our lives—He will not condemn us.

I sit with this dream vision—20-30 foot angels encamped around houses in a field. I let myself experience once again the summer humidity, the inky black sky, the glimmering stars, the friends gathered around. And then I look out and see those awesome angels, encircling us, protecting us, loving us. I slowly turn my mental kaleidoscope to see them encamped around our home here at Cloudland; turn again to see them encircling Safe Haven Farms; turn again to watch them encircle Matt’s house; turn once again to see them surrounding Justin and Elizabeth’s house.

“I will bless the LORD at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul makes its boast in the LORD; let the afflicted hear and be glad. O magnify the LORD with me, and let us exalt his name together! I sought the LORD, and he answered me, and delivered me from all my fears. Look to him, and be radiant; so your faces shall never be ashamed.” (v. 1-5)

So why am I so unhappy about turning 60? My birthday is tomorrow, and I’ve been moping around for the past couple of months, saying no to my husband’s urging for a celebratory party, no to having just a few people over for dinner, no to a bonfire party in the side pasture.

I drag myself out of bed in the morning, drag from coffee to the computer, from the computer to prayer, from prayer to lunch with a friend, from lunch to a nap, from a nap to the pool, from the pool to dinner, from dinner back to the computer or a Netflix movie.

Enough!

After exercising at the pool today, I sit in the hot tub (where some of my best conversations with God seem to take place), and let my mind roam.

Okay, I ask myself. What does 60 look like?

The answers spill out of my head one by one, fully formed, and migrate downwards to my aching heart.

60 looks like living in a retreat setting that I prayed for and visualized with my husband 20-some years ago.

60 looks like living in a small town for the first time since I was 16, and loving the fact that everything I need or want is within ten minutes of my door.

60 looks like meeting new friends on a daily basis.

60 looks like participating weekly in three prayer groups that practice lectio divina, lectio being the spiritual discipline, aside from meditation, that most feeds my soul.

60 looks like training to be a spiritual director, a dream I’ve held for at least 10 years, and being blown away by the connections with the people in my cohort, by the assigned readings, and by meetings with the woman who so graciously agreed to be my guinea pig as I train. Such a sense of “coming home!”

60 looks like finding and worshipping in a tiny non-denominational church that accepts my youngest son, who has autism, unconditionally. Not only do they accept him, but they call out his gifts as a contributing member of the community. This is a first. And I am in awe.

60 looks like lunching with dear friends at least twice weekly, sometimes more, sharing our hearts, our faith, and laughter.

60 looks like a 40th anniversary train trip through the Canadian Rockies with my husband and finding that the spark of romance is not only a glimmering coal, but a flame.

60 looks like spending time every Wednesday with my mother, who has dementia, and laughing over a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, or a movie.

60 looks like signing a contract for a new book, and writing about two of the things I feel most passionate about: disability and spirituality.

60 looks like contributing, financially and in person, to a ministry that believes in the healing power of Jesus Christ.

60 looks like a trip-of-a-lifetime to Israel, where I met Jesus by the Sea of Galilee, just as he promised beforehand.

60 looks like a vision of a beautiful young girl, who looks an awful lot like me, escaping from a cramped cupboard, drinking deep of water from the well, standing tall, and walking forward in Holy Spirit power.

It’s time to wash away the lies that tell me that 60 is old. That 60 is washed-up. That 60 is the end of the line.

This is what 60 looks like, and I like it.

I like it a lot.

Like a petunia
Poking purple trumpet
Through crack in blacktop drive
You cannot be hid

You show up
In clinking, clanking MRI tunnel
To young mother with brain cancer
Rocking her to sleep on rivers of peace

You show up
At the second game of the season
To football star, a senior, with ruined knee
Propel him down field on wings of angels

You show up
With farmhouse, gardens, view of sky and circle drive
To middle-aged parents, dreams detoured by autism,
Fulfill twenty-year-old sketches, journal entries and prayers

You show up
In midnight visits to woman lucky in love
Now losing her husband, spent with care-giving,
Reassure her she’s like Elijah, only human, needing rest

You show up
In impossible places
Dashed dreams
Inky black midnights
Total eclipses of the sun

You show up

To give you the context of the story: Jacob is extremely anxious about the confrontation with his brother, Esau. Will Esau accept Jacob? Forgive him? Or will Esau attack Jacob and his entourage? Jacob divides into two camps his clan and the flocks of sheep, goats, cows and camels he’s brought as gift. He sends them on ahead as two separate groups, hoping the gifts will appease his brother. If his brother attacks, at least he will have something left. Alone for the last night of his long and arduous journey, Jacob tries to sleep.

“…and a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and Jacob’s thigh was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then he said, “Your name shall no more be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed.” Then Jacob asked him, “Tell me, I pray, your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the name of the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.” The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his thigh. Therefore to this day the Israelites do not eat the sinew of the hip which is upon the hollow of the thigh, because he touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh on the sinew of the hip.” (Gen 32: 24-32).

The verse that grabs me and will not let me go is this: “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” This is what I’d like to say to God! And so, I take the words with me into meditation, repeating them as a mantra. “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”

Usually, it takes me 15-20 minutes to reach a place within myself that is quiet enough to hear the still, small voice of God. Often, that voice is just a feeling, or a distant, lovely melody. Today, it is instantaneous. God reaches through my monkey-mind, the chatter of cicadas, and the cat twining himself around my legs. God grabs me by the shoulders and he gently shakes me, as a father gets the attention of a child who is not listening. “Look at me. I’m talking to you. Listen to what I’m saying.”

This is what I hear:

Kathy, you have been wrestling with me for 33 years. You wrestled with me after your father died, all those long months and years of your grief. You wrestled with me as you learned to mother your sons. Remember how inadequate you felt? You began wrestling with me in earnest when Joel was only a few days old. You wrestled with me through the jaundice, the decision to begin physical and speech therapy, and the decision to enroll him in a preschool for children with disabilities. We wrestled through his diagnosis of moderate mental retardation at age three, and again at age five. We wrestled through the diagnosis of autism at age twelve.

“We wrestled through all of those stressful IEP meetings, through the decision to take him out of public school and enroll him in the county school. We wrestled through all of the behaviors—the times you locked yourself in the bathroom to keep safe from his hands, stood outside of the car on the side of the road as he kicked the windows, and as he pulled strangers’ hair. We wrestled as you and Wally took turns staying up all night when he couldn’t sleep. You wrestled with me when your love for him was so great you felt it would burst, when he worshipped me with abandon, giving joy to all who watched. We wrestled as you found the courage to try the DAN protocol, and as we watched him find success at Beckman.

“We wrestled as you and Wally made the difficult decision to move Joel from your home to Safe Haven Farms. We’re still wrestling through a difficult transition. We’ve wrestled through doctor visit after doctor visit, hospitalization after hospitalization. We’ve wrestled through this newest transition to the Liberty Center. You’ve wrestled with me through your other sons’ issues, difficulties in your marriage, and through your mother’s decline into the confusion of dementia.

“Do you see a pattern here, Kathy? You’ve never let me go. You’ve held on tight. You’ve never once let go. Even when I touched your hip and the pain made walking difficult, you did not let go. Through the wrestling you’ve become strong. You couldn’t wrestle with me in that dark cupboard of lies in which you once hid yourself, afraid of the truth. In order to keep up this wrestling match, you stepped out into the light of the truth:

You are my beloved daughter. I created you for a purpose. I give you the power to speak my truth wherever you go. You speak my truth as you write, in your speaking, and as you cross the Jordan into the future of all I have in store for you.

And so, in the midst of the struggle, I give you a new name. Truth Teller.

Go forth. Stand tall in your new-found strength. Tell everyone you meet that I love them. Tell them that I want to wrestle with them as a father wrestles with his children. Tell them that I walk with them in the midst of their struggles and pain.

Tell them not to give up.