By guest blogger Andrea Frazer
I’m the first to admit that I became reacquainted with Jesus a few years back because I had to believe in something more passionately then “There’s a God but I can’t tell you exactly Who He is.” I needed to know who this Jesus was, and what exactly He meant to me.
My “Come to Jesus” exploded when my son was diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome – an incurable (and maddening) disorder which causes him to make uncontrollable vocal and physical movements.
It seemed so random and cruel to me. Why would my beautiful blond four year old – my “perfect” angel – be given such an odd hand of life cards? There had to be a reason. There had to be a bigger picture to all this. It couldn’t simply be the random odds of some random genetic mutation.
The atheist might point out that if Jesus loved my son so my much, why would he give him this disorder? I’d agree with the atheist, but I certainly wouldn’t live a peaceful life. As it is, I have a soul about as discombobulated as Simon Cowell at an American Idol audition high on Coca Cola and Hershey bars. (Me, dramatic? Never.)
I knew that to have joy despite chaos, I would have to hang my hat on the Jesus coat rack. It says in Matthew 10:24-33 “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father’s will. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.”
After first dismissing the idea that I never have good hair days – who cares if Jesus numbers them – I decided to go with the real message in this verse: Jesus loves me. Jesus loves my son. Tourette Syndrome might kill the dream I had for my son’s outer appearance, but it cannot kill his soul. And it cannot kill mine.
Oh, it tries. Along with a zillion other things. But even when I’m hopelessly hanging by a thread, I remember that I am here for a reason. I don’t know how Atheists don’t have heart attacks. And yes, if you’re an atheist reading me, I fully admit that I’m an insecure twit who would crack like an old woman’s face sans sunscreen. I can deal with your eye rolls, dear atheist, but I can’t deal with my son’s uncontrollable eye rolls without Jesus.
Despite reading God’s Word, I still falter and doubt. I hate that. I know I’m supposed to ask for God’s hand on my life, then follow His lead. But too often, I act first then ask Him to bless my actions.
Last month, for kicks and giggles, I decided to pray to Jesus for wisdom.
Having a husband who is an atheist – a very logical one at that – made my praying to a Jesus I don’t readily see a difficult feat at best. But I did it anyway – just like I keep buying Ziggy coffee cups from thrift stores for $1.99/mug. There’s no rhyme or reason sometimes – just pure passion and “it feels right” gusto.
My prayers went something like this: “Jesus, I’m sorry for sometimes doubting you exist. I’m sorry for being so unsure of you… of being so unsure of myself. But I kind of see myself like a baby. I know one day I will run to you unassisted – kind of like a slow motion reunion that would make an awesome Hallmark Movie of the Week. Viewers everywhere will cry as I touch your garments and sit down for cappuccinos with you.
And the residuals? I’d totally send some to your favorite charity of choice. But right now, I’m sort of crawling on my belly in this downward dog Yoga position. It’s hell on my wrists. And those hairs on my head you have numbered? They’re sticking straight up in stupid baby pony tails. Or maybe they’re rocking the Dorothy Hammil hairdo. The verdict is still out. But that spinach my mom keeps feeding me? It sucks.
And I digress. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Please give me some wisdom today. Show me a sign that I’m on the right track.”
Now some of you more seasoned Christians might point out that God does not show signs like a magician pulling a rabbit out of the hat. But remember: I’m still a baby Christian. I like shiny things! I like reassurance and pats and ‘Ooooh, Andrea, you are so cute just keep on keeping on!’ I’ll take a few miracles along the way, even if they happen at a Los Angeles mall on a rainy Tuesday morning.
Like last week. When I sat in the parking structure and prayed to a Jesus I sometimes doubt about peace over my son’s condition.
And then I sat down at a coffee shop I never go to and found myself idly chatting to a woman who just about made me fall off my chair. (No, I didn’t start speaking in tongues. Even if I did, though, I’d call it a tic. When you’re in Tourette Land, everything is a tic. Jesus didn’t get the credit just yet.)
Tune in Thursday for the conclusion!