W. Mark Whitlock's Blog

How do estranged parents respond to the pain and ache of “no contact”?How far away from your beloved stranger do you feel?

You and I shouldn’t rush to an answer to this question. The pain of distance is real. Pain, when hidden, is often crammed into a closet like a decade’s worth of out-of-style clothing, sports equipment, and holiday decorations that will explode forth and crush us if we turn the doorknob even a quarter. If the pain is visible, it is like an open sore, and no matter how much we perform wound care, it still seeps and aches.

Some days, we feel a continent away from our beloved strangers.

How far away from God do you feel?

In the same way, we should take a beat before we answer. This pain wears many costumes. Which of these sounds familiar? Abandoned. Left for dead. Punished. Forgotten. Cast aside. In this pain of distance, our hearts can even turn to unbelief. We may dress up our lives in faith, but at our core, we don’t—or can’t—believe right now.

Some days, we feel galaxies apart from God.

In this moment, we can do little to change our distance from our children. Even if we tried, despite what some internet-crowned experts tout, our efforts would probably drive them further away.

However, in this moment, we can speak to our hearts and reject the second question altogether. God is close. So close, in fact, He can reach out and touch our faces.

In 1 Samuel 20–21, David had been anointed King but hadn’t ascended to the throne. He is serving in Saul’s court, but Saul is angry, suspicious, and plotting against him. David’s deep friendship with Jonathan saves his life. David escapes, faces hunger, then runs right into his old nemeses, the Philistines. To get away, he has to act like a sweaty-toothed madman drooling all over his beard. (Much like how we feel when some people look at us and wonder what caused the rift between us and our children.)

At some point after this incident, perhaps even in the cave of Adullam, David felt he had enough perspective to pull out his lyre and spin a tune: Psalm 56. He starts out recounting how his enemies attacked him, injured him, and stirred up strife. He takes a deep breath and then writes these words:

You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?

Psalm 56:8, ESV

We are the generation of camcorders, scrapbooking, and shoeboxes full of memories. We need only walk a few steps to pull photo albums from the bookcase, or a few steps farther to lower a box from a closet shelf. We can also pick up our magical rectangles, tap a few times, and see our beloved stranger’s life glow before our eyes. We remember. We ache. In essence, we keep count.

But oh so much more does God. How much more precious is what God does with us? How much more intimate is His collection? Not a tear has pooled in our eyes, carved caverns down our faces, been wiped away, fallen to our clothes, or absorbed by our pillows that He hasn’t captured. And not only the tears, but the stories behind them. The tears are in a bottle, but the reasons we cried are written in His book.

Not a tear has pooled in our eyes, carved caverns down our faces, been wiped away, fallen to our clothes, or absorbed by our pillows that He hasn’t captured.

Yes, we are closer to our memories than we are to our beloved strangers, but God is not distant. He has not forgotten us. He wraps us in His arms. He remembers every moment of grief.

May we, like David reflecting on the tenderness of God, say, “In God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can man do to me?” Even as we long for the opportunity to make new memories, take new pictures, capture new video, and continue the story, may our voices echo David’s closing words, “For you have delivered my soul from death, yes, my feet from falling, that I may walk before God in the light of life.”

Stay for a WhileRead: 1 Samuel 20:1–22:5 and Psalm 56.Pray: Reflect on the last time you cried (or emoted strongly in other ways) about your beloved stranger. Thank God for caring about each moment, each tear, and each feeling.Write: Craft your own psalm. Write to the Lord how you feel you have been treated by your beloved stranger, but after each phrase, add David’s Psalm 56 refrain, “In God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”Listen: “I Cry” by Russ Taff

The post What Happens to Our Tears? appeared first on W. Mark Whitlock.

Even with all her flaws, foibles, and her citizens forgetting her history, I love America.

This Independence Day, here are five pieces of media I recommend we dive into to remember why this nation is worth fighting for.

I know this is an extra article this week, but once I started contemplating the list, it flowed out of me.

The audiobook version of 1776 by David McCullough

Woven into the events of the actual calendar year, McCullough provides rich details and perspectives on the fight, how hard the fight was, and most importantly, why we fought in the first place. There is no whitewashing of ideas or people; however, matters are framed in their proper context, historically and philosophically.

McCullough reads his own works and is a delightful and powerful narrator. By hearing the author deliver his own work, we gain so much understanding of how he emphasizes one idea or another. (Note: the YouTube video is the full audiobook, but the fidelity is low.)

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe...Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewart teamed up many years before It’s a Wonderful Life. (This movie is even more powerful if you watch IaWL afterward knowing that Stewart and Capra—and our nation—endured World War II between the movies.) What would happen if someone who loved the U.S., wasn’t jaded by the crushing cogs of grift and favors of Washington politics, and truly wanted to govern became a Senator?

If possible, try to imagine what it would’ve been like for the average American to go see this movie in the neighborhood theatre. In 1939, the effects of the Depression still weighed us down. Frequent travel was not a part of the American experience. We weren’t a car culture yet. Flying was still for the elite. Most didn’t leave their counties let alone their states. Movie goers might have seen color photographs in magazines, but newspaper reviews of the movie reported gasps from audience members when Jefferson Smith sees the monuments of Washington, D.C. thus allowing many Americans to see them for the first time, too.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe...The Patriot

The movie has its problems, but there are too many scenes in it that illustrate powerful concepts like state’s rights, honor, deference, diplomacy, and freedom. Two scenes will always stand out to me. First, while Benjamin Martin (Mel Gibson) mourns his son’s brutal death at the hands of a British officer without honor, he finds an American flag in his son’s effects. The conversations about and the handling of the actual flag stir my soul. Secondly, throughout the film, we see a the tension between a slave and a soldier under Martin. This story arc provides a stark illustration of one of the aspects of the issue we should wrestle with instead of throwing soundbites at each other.

If for no other reason, watch the movie to revel in John Williams’ stirring score which is sure to help you stand taller. Your right hand will naturally move to your heart.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe... opening few minutes of Season 1, Episode 1 of The Newsroom

Aaron Sorkin ins one of my favorite writers of all time even though we hold differing points of view about many political issues. No matter where you reside on the political spectrum, this scene, which sets up the incredible series, will make you angry and stir your pride in our nation. And hopefully, it will cause you to want to work harder, be a part of the process, know your representatives, show up at meetings, and make your voice known.

Clips of the scene have made the rounds online for years since the show’s release (like this one), but they miss the context of McAvoy’s answer. If you can, watch on HBO Max to see the very first words through 8:05.

(And if you have a place in your heart for journalism and television news, watch the opening credits sequence, too. It will move you.)

A Capitol Fourth

I will continue to give money to PBS as long as they produce the Memorial Day concert and A Capitol Fourth every year. The music, stories, sights, and crowd thrill me. I watch recordings of A Capitol Fourth if I leave the house for fireworks. It means that much every year.

For America’s 250th, they are pulling out all the stops with the band Chicago, Kool & the Gang, Patti LaBelle, Trace Adkins, Alan Jackson, Gary Sinese, and so many more.

Trailer | Live Stream

Miracle

The greatest moment in American sports history is beautifully set against the reality of the Cold War, the hostage crisis, insane gas prices, and America’s general malaise following the Vietnam War.

At one point, the movie makers play an extended clip from one of President Jimmy Carter’s speeches. If you only know the caricature of the man, you may leave your viewing with a greater understanding of how our nation elected him.

Watch carefully for every mention of the crowd, or how America responds, or the support for the team. And marvel at Al Michaels’ call of the game. Much was recreated for the movie since it shortened game action, but the audio wizards cleaned up the actual “Do You Believe in Miracles?” portion because nothing moves like how he said it in the moment.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe...Band of Brothers

The book is magnificent. The HBO series is transcendent. Both stand equally well. The book contains detail and history, paints the 1940s so well, and puts all of the battles in a greater context of World War II. The HBO series allows you to hear the bullets, planes, and aircraft, feel the Georgia heat and the frigid cold of the Ardennes, and experience jumping out of a plane on fire.

Invest the time to experience the entire book or series.

Before Independence Day, however, watch Episode 9, Why We Fight.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe...America: You’re Too Young to Die

This is must-watch viewing for the Semiquincentennial. President Ronald Reagan has a few remarks in this excellently produced history lesson from 1985. I have watched this many times over the years. I laugh every time at Hal Smith’s portrayal of Benjamin Franklin (my favorite). I tear up every time with the intent of the special.

This telecast is part history lesson, part patriotic display, and part call to greater things. Don’t dismiss the 1980s production and perspective on issues and don’t wave your hand over the points it makes. Take in the heart of what they were attempting to accomplish.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embe...The Star Spangled Banner by Sandi Patty

Note: The pronoun her is used throughout this prayer. If you are praying through a son’s birthday, substitute his name, his, and him throughout. Where appropriate, substitute your experiences for those expressed here. Feel free to substitute “we” and “us” as well if you are able to pray this with your spouse today.

Eternal God,

You are infinite, eternal, and unchangeable.

You reign over all, separate from time and space.

Be with me here today where gravity anchors my body to the earth and my memories lock me to my beloved stranger who celebrates a birthday today.

Today feels like it will last a thousand years. Will You please be with me through every moment and memory?

Birthdays are always about the anticipation, looking forward to the big day. Guide me to anticipate what You are doing in her life and to wait expectantly to witness Your will coming to fruition.

I feel anger that I cannot be with her today to celebrate. I remember the parties I planned and hosted. Help me to be grateful for those moments and pray for her joy today.

I mourn what I’ve lost—the conversations and the closeness. Lead me to thank You for all those precious moments, rather than whine about what’s missing.

I remember the presents, wrapped with care, that she opened with joy. Today, I want to remember that she is a gift from You.

I won’t fill a bag of discarded paper, tape, and bows. Will You continue to show me how to get rid of all of my negative thoughts and behaviors? May I bring my filthy rags to You in repentance?

Be with me as I look at the notches in the door frame that marked her growth from toddler to teen. Comfort me as I hear the echoes of her conversations with friends, laughter, singing, and dancing feet. Remind me that You began a good work in her and that You will be faithful to complete it.

I worship You, Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I worship You, the creator of time.

Here, there will be no cake decorated with her passions and for her delight. Will You please grant to us our daily bread and help me look to You to uphold her and me?

No wisps of smoke will rise from blown-out birthday candles. I long to rest in You, especially today, knowing that my life is just a vapor, appearing for a little while.

You are the same today, yesterday, and forever. Where I am stuck today, will You lift my chin, dry my eyes, and point me to what is eternal? When I see photographs of past birthdays, will You direct my gaze to Your plan for her?

In this moment, I pray for her. Will You grant her joy today? Surround her with those who love her, remind her that there is only one like her in the entire universe, lead her to give You thanks for breathing life into her, and bring her peace. Energize her with plans for her future and prompt her to thank You for all You’ve provided. Wrap Your arms of love around her today.

And since I can’t hug her today myself, will You embrace me in Your love and care today, too?

You are the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God. To You be honor and glory forever and ever.

Amen

If you’re old enough, where were you during the bicentennial celebration in 1976?

Please leave a comment with your story

Guess where I was during the bicentennial?

My dad concocted a brilliant plan. We would take a family vacation west from Georgia to California since the rest of the U.S. would be headed up the eastern seaboard to visit all of the historical markers from our fight for independence.

Halfway between the purple mountain’s majesty and the amber waves of grain, he laughed as he piloted our brand new 1976 Ford Granada Ghia (light blue with a white quarter vinyl roof, the first car we ever owned with air conditioning, I might add). He laughed because it felt like everyone in the entire country had the same idea. We wore out a cassette of “Elvis Country” along Route 66.

While my mom shopped, I guess, Dad and I drank sarsaparilla, conducted a slow-motion gun fight at the OK Corral, inspired the writers of National Lampoon’s Vacation with our three-minute visit to the rim of the Grand Canyon, mourned the loss of Elvis when we pulled into a city where he was scheduled to perform, stayed too long in Lake Havasu City, and marveled at Chavez Ravine (please read this article about my dad and baseball). I won five dollars worth of nickels in the lobby of our hotel in Las Vegas, causing a massive uproar from the hotel manager and security since a seven-year-old played a slot machine.

Despite heading west, an enduring love of our country was kindled that summer, fanned into flame by my time as a Boy Scout. Cord wood was added to the flame by my dad’s officer’s commission into the Army, which hung on the wall of our home, and my time sitting on the bench for the DeKalb Community College Central Campus Patriots basketball team, whose minuteman painted at center court was far superior to the one painted on the side of a New England football helmet.

Years after earning my Eagle Scout, my son—one of my beloved strangers—spent some time earning merit badges before finding his purpose as a Tae Kwon Do athlete. On one of the weekend campouts, the leaders asked me to help perform a flag retirement ceremony during the campfire that night.

When flags are worn out, faded, frayed, or otherwise in poor shape, the U.S. Flag Code §8(k) says, “The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning.”

You read that correctly. Burning. Most often, the flag is cut into its component pieces—the blue field of stars, seven red stripes, and six white stripes—then placed in a roaring hot fire during a patriotic reading, singing of “The National Anthem,” or recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.

That’s a different burning than the kind we see in protest.

It was that juxtaposition that got me thinking. What would an American Flag say before being retired in the flames?

So here, on the front porch of our Semiquincentennial, I offer these observations written as the script for a flag retirement ceremony.

Note: It is customary during these ceremonies to pause and ask those who served in our armed forces to stand, allowing others in attendance to honor their service and the sacrifice of their brothers in arms. That would occur at the point where the branches are named.

If an American flag could speak to us tonight, what might she say?

“I am an American flag. I am mere cloth, thread, and grommet. But I also have a soul. It is the American Spirit that burns inside of you.

“I am red, and white, and blue. But I am also the colors of our country—the gold fields of wheat, the gray ribbons of highway, the green rolling hills and timberlines, and—yes—the purple mountain’s majesty.

“My sisters and I have flown for longer than 200 years. We have ridden on horseback during cavalry campaigns. We have been raised under gunfire on mountains in the Pacific. We have blanketed coffins vouchsafing the dignity of those that died protecting your freedom. We have whipped atop masts on aircraft carriers. We have mourned at half-mast. We have fluttered in the breeze on lonely cemetery hilltops. We have adorned the shoulders of scouts and soldiers, athletes and airmen. No matter where, we’ve flown under a sky created by Almighty God.

“I have many names. Old Glory. The stars and bars. Freedom’s flag. The stars and stripes. Democracy’s standard. The Star-Spangled Banner. No matter what you call me, I am the flag of the United States of America.

“Soon, I will be retired in the flames before me. A sister flag will take my place, waving above a building or in front of a home. When you see her there, will you think of me? Will you remember our time together?

“Some believe that flags shouldn’t be burned, except in protest. I do burn tonight in protest—protest against all dictators and totalitarians who squeeze dignity and freedom from their people. I burn in protest against Marxism, Fascism, and Communism! I burn in protest against cowardly terrorists. I burn in protest against all those who hate freedom.

“So stand up airmen, soldiers, sailors, and marines! Remember how you served—here or over there—Coast Guardsman, National Guardsman, Merchant Marine, and Space Force Guardians.

And you! Citizen! Rise to your feet now as well in respect for the freedoms won by those who served this great land.

“I AM THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. As I burn, may freedom’s light rekindle in you.”

Happy Independence Day. Happy Semiquincentennial.

The post What Would an American Flag Say? appeared first on W. Mark Whitlock.

How Christian parents of estranged children can make some sense out of God’s timing.

Cynics love to drag out an old chestnut of a riddle to trip up Christ followers. They ask, “If God is all-powerful, can He make a rock so large that even He can’t move it?”

If God is all-powerful, can He make a rock so large that even He can’t move it?

So what’s the answer? And how does the answer help us with our relationship with our beloved strangers?

Here we go: There are things God can’t do. He can’t do anything against His nature. Jesus cannot allow someone who is not born again into the kingdom of God. (Take a look at Jesus’s dead-of-night conversation with Nicodemus in John 3.) That also means He can’t prevent a child whom He loves and rescued from his or her sin from entering His eternal presence.

That’s great and everything, we think, but then why does God allow something that seems against His nature: our separation from our children? Why would that be in His will? If we were reunited, wouldn’t that bring God glory and honor?

David and Saul

King Saul and his army of thousands hunted David with more fervor and cunning than Gerard’s hard target search through every henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse for Richard Kimble. The future king hid in brush, behind rocks, in caves, and dodged soldiers who came within a spear’s length. Does that sound like God working within His own nature? For months, the Lord preserved David. The once and future shepherd/harpist even composed Psalm 31 to celebrate God’s protection and safety.

Like Saul, even though our life feels impossible, as if we’re under attack and the storms will never relent, we can go to God in prayer for His protection and comfort. There is a reason for the whirlwind that we may know on earth or may only find out in the new heaven and new earth.

Mary and Martha

Mary and Martha had lost their patience. They must have grown tired asking, “Where is Jesus?” Their brother was breaths away from his final one, and Jesus was dawdling in the next town over. Didn’t He care? Wasn’t Lazarus His friend?

Then Lazarus died. They buried him. Still no Jesus.

How does this reflect the nature of God?

When Jesus neared the home four days after Lazarus breathed his last, Martha met him on the road, and the two wept together. How many days had they begged Jesus to come? How many messengers had they sent to the Rabbi?

In just a matter of minutes, Lazarus was alive and in desperate need of some scissors.

Jesus comforted Martha with His tears even though He knew He would raise Lazarus before Martha’s nose stopped being red.

When our grief and sorrow are at their worst, we can go to God in prayer because He will weep with us. And He will bring about a resurrection in His time and according to His will, even if it isn’t in ours.

Moses and Joshua

Moses passed the mantle of leadership to Joshua to lead Israel into the Promised Land. But there were giants in them there hills. The ragtag bunch of former Egyptian slaves was outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and outplanned. How was this in God’s nature?

Could God do the impossible again? Five times—five times—God told Joshua to be strong and courageous. God prepared him for challenges and difficulties. Then God divided the Jordan River. A second parting. A second crossing.

We have impossible staring us in the face every day, but we can look to God Almighty and His timing for His hand. (And if He chooses to part the frozen tundra between our children and ourselves, we will look at it and declare it miraculous.)

Read: Psalm 31. Read it slowly and aloud. Don’t do it as a task. Read it as an act of worship. Take your time, especially through verses nine through 13. (Consider memorizing this Psalm in the Bible translation of your choosing.)

Pray: Psalm 31:1–5

Write: Describe in pixels, pencil, or pen what seems impossible to you about your relationship with your beloved stranger? Then describe what you understand to be impossible from your child/children’s side. Don’t forget the “why” from both perspectives.

Listen: “Blessed Be Your Name” by Matt Redman

The post Is That Really in God’s Nature? appeared first on W. Mark Whitlock.

Oh Heavenly Father,

You are the compassionate one, my Rock, and my Savior.

You don’t change like shifting shadows, and every good and perfect gift comes down from You, oh Father of Light.

Today is Father’s Day. I feel anxiety and anger toward my estranged child and I feel hurt that we won’t be connected today. I stand here connected in a long chain of imperfect fathers from Adam, Noah, and Abraham through my grandfather and father.

I feel helpless to say or do the right thing for my children. I want to lift my eyes to the heavens and see my help coming from You, the Maker of heaven and earth, but my head is heavy with worry and shame.

I feel hopeless that anything will ever change between us. I feel hopeless that my beloved stranger will contact me today. Hope seems microscopic in this moment. I don’t know if it is the overwhelming size of a star just far away in another galaxy, or a speck of dust so small I can’t possibly hold it between two fingers. So instead, will You be my hope, Abba, Father?

In this moment, I kneel before You, Father, the One from whom every family in heaven and on earth receives its name. Will You strengthen my faith with power out of Your glorious riches? Will You allow Your beloved Son to dwell in my heart through faith?

Please root and establish the children You entrusted to me in Your love. Help them—and me—grasp how wide and long and high and deep is Your everlasting love.

Today is Father’s Day. So, Heavenly Father, Happy Father’s Day.

Amen

The post Between Shadows and Light: A Prayer on Father’s Day for Fathers Estranged from their Children appeared first on W. Mark Whitlock.

A Deep Dive into Field of Dreams, estranged fathers, and movie magic

Field of Dreams will endure as one of the greatest baseball movies of all time. James Earl Jones delivers one of his most iconic performances. The lines from the movie will echo in dugouts and around dinner tables for generations. But at the heart of the movie lies the story of an estranged father and son.

Movie makers often compress decades of information into an exposition scene so that they can get all the history out of the way of the story that’s about to unfold. Field of Dreams does so when it presents the life story of Ray and Annie Kinsella through a slide show with a Kevin Costner voiceover. Tucked inside this outstanding two-minute and five-second monologue is this telling line:

Dad was a Yankees fan then, so of course I rooted for Brooklyn. But in ‘58 the Dodgers moved away, so we had to find other things to fight about.

Baseball evolved into the sword that cut the knot of their father/child relationship. The refrain of this problem comes back again and again to set up the glorious three-hankie final scene. Baseball also brings together Ray’s relationship with his elementary-aged daughter, Karin. Ray’s eyes light up as he shares stories and stats, defines terminology, and introduces his daughter to the sport. Watch how often she is the one moving the movie forward. She rides on the tractor with Ray as he plows under his corn like a horse’s ass. She interrupts a budget conversation with the news that there’s a man out there on his lawn. She pulls Ray from the lunch with the in-laws. The “People will Come” speech is not James Earl Jones’. No, it is Karin’s. Jones just continues it. And of course, Karin’s choking episode opens the eyes of ole Uncle Mark who wants to foreclose on the farm with his ruthless partners.

Yes, baseball drove Ray and his father, John, apart as much as it brought Ray and his daughter, Karin, together. Take for instance the other exposition dump in the movie. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham is asleep in the back of the VW Bus while Ray and Terrance Mann talk about baseball between the World Wars. Terrance pushes Ray to talk more about his dad. This scene plays out:

Have you ever heard someone talk about “The Field of Dreams Myth”? In business parlance, if a company founder or solopreneur thinks, “If I build it, customers will come,” they’ve bought into the myth. In the same way, I think we estranged parents have a “Field of Dreams Myth” about our children. We watch the relationship between Ray and Karin and nostalgia causes goosebumps to spring up on our arms and our tear ducts to shift into overdrive. We comment to ourselves, “I was like that. I was involved. I was spirited, and playful, and invited my children into my life.”

When Ray says, “So when I was fourteen, I started to refuse. Can you believe that? An American boy refusing to have a catch with his father?” we mumble in reply.

“You see? Those petty arguments during adolescence. Of course. My son was trying to grow wings. I was worried about missing him when he left. I wanted to squeeze every lesson I possibly could into those final few years, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

Next, we hear Ray say, “We had a big fight, I packed my things, said something awful, and left. After a while I wanted to come home, but I didn’t know how. I made it back for the funeral“ (emphasis mine).

The “Field of Dreams Myth” is now firing off rockets in our souls. “You see! There’s regret! There’s sorrow! Oh, he just didn’t know how. Maybe I should reach out right now. I don’t want my son to live out my greatest nightmare: only making it back for the funeral.”

One story told by some of America’s greatest actors, scored by James Horner (Titanic, Brave Heart, Apollo XIII), wrapped up in what used to be America’s greatest pastime does not equal a formula for reconciliation from estrangement.

So, can we learn anything about our children, our pain, or life in general from the movie?

Perhaps. Allow me to spell out three observations I made during my most recent celluloid (or I guess I should say digital) trip to Iowa.

1. Annie is the Key

Annie, played by Amy Madigan, has never met John, her father-in-law. He’s been dead for many years. Her story doesn’t apply to all or ours. She wasn’t hurt by and never argued with John. She could tell her husband to forget about his dad, rehearse all of the pain Ray shared with her (which if not everything would’ve triggered Ray to remember the rest), and talk about the future or moving on. Instead, she encourages the dream and shares it with her husband.

If our estranged children are married, we cannot escape the role our children’s spouses play in reconciliation. And here’s the awful part: we can’t change the spouse’s opinion one iota. Some may claim they “know” the spouse is the one who pulled the beloved stranger away. Let us check ourselves if we believe that. Others among us may say, “I had a good relationship with him/her early in the relationship, I should give him/her a call to try and end this silliness.” Friends, may we stop before we pick up the phone and pose our thumbs over the buttons.

In the same way that Annie turns the field lights on so Ray and John can continue their game of catch, your beloved stranger’s spouse may be the one to turn the light on. Or it may just be that he/she doesn’t turn it off. Pray for understanding, wisdom, and empathy for yourself. And pray for him/her, too, because he/she is carrying a burden as well.

2. Terrance Mann Called His Father

While in Chisholm, Minnesota, Ray picks up a copy of the newspaper and reads a story reporting that Terrance Mann is considered missing. Mann’s father had notified police after he couldn’t reach his son on the phone. In one of the biggest laugh lines, Ray leaves the motel room to give Mann some privacy, Terry picks up the phone and then freezes. He says to the room, “What do I tell him?”

Ray was driven apart from his dad by several factors including continued grief from the loss of his mother, “The Sixties,” arguments, rugged insistence on baseball leading to burnout, and reading The Boat Rocker by Terrance Mann. We don’t know anything else. The movie doesn’t tell us. In the same way that you haven’t disclosed every moment of every encounter with your children, your beloved stranger has probably not disclosed every encounter with others or especially you. Besides, none of us can know which moments are the defining ones.

Mann is still connected to (or possibly reconnected to; we don’t know) his father. So, one of the architects of “The Sixties” and the author of Ray’s wedge is not estranged from his father. Sure, it’s a “Greatest Generation” dad and a “Silent Generation” son in the Manns’ case as opposed to a “Silent Generation” father and a “Boomer” son in the case of the Kinsellas. But it is much deeper than that. We don’t know what kept the Manns together. Nor do we know exactly what keeps some families from estrangement. Why do we compare? Why do we say, “Well, look at them? My child and their child practically grew up together. How many movies and sleepovers and birthday parties and school basketball games did we all attend together? What did they do that I didn’t?” Every parent/child story is as different as every pitcher’s curve ball. So, just rest in the fact that God knows your exact situation and is working it out according to His will and His timing.]

3. John and Ray Meet Again Surrounded by Understanding

Close your eyes and think for just a moment about where John and Ray are emotionally when they shake hands. Okay, you can open them again. John, dead for many years, has come back to a magical place where he is playing baseball with some of the greatest athletes in the history of the sport. A minor league catcher who never got called up, I wonder if he’s seeing the gap between his skill set and that of the other players. He’s had decades, in the universe of the movie, to reflect on his life. He appears grateful. Grateful for the field to return to, grateful for the chance to play, and grateful to meet Annie and Karin. He expresses his gratitude through the handshake.

Ray has been on an odd journey for longer than a year. He destroys his crop, he builds a field no one understands, he endures months with no movement, his financial world is upside down dangling above the shredder, he was faced with whether or not to give it all up to end the pain, his daughter could’ve died, and in that very moment, he feels like he did it all for nothing because he can’t go with the players into the corn. He shakes his father’s hand amid pain and uncertainty.

You’re ahead of me, aren’t you? You’re already saying, “Exactly! So how do I get to this level of understanding with my son/daughter?”

Where Do Estranged Parents Go from Here?

Who is the driving force behind Ray and John’s story? We know better than to say, “The Universe.” We know it is God Almighty. In a series of beautiful and memorable moments made for Hollywood, director Phil Alden Robinson (Sneakers, The Sum of All Fears) sews up this tale in exactly 100 minutes.

God, the author and perfecter of our stories, is certainly taking longer than 100 minutes with your story and mine. But let us take heart, dear friend. Allow me to close with words from another amazing storyteller, Frank Peretti:

God is the grand storyteller of our lives. He weaves our days and then strings them like beads on the chain of history. He knows the placement of every person and event, the end from the beginning. From His lofty heights He has the best view of all. In a stable in Bethlehem so long ago, God wrote himself into the story and became its central character. Now the weaver of the story walks with us in the midst of the story. And He’ll stay with us until that story is completed His way, in His time, and for His glory.

—Frank Peretti, from the conclusion of All is Well published by Word in 1991.

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Records from the 15th through 19th centuries tell stories of church leaders in Europe and even America who forced those caught in sin to dress all in white and walk through town carrying a lit candle. The townspeople would mock and taunt the person for his or her sin.

This medieval practice of carrying a penitential candle lost the plot.

You and I carry the weight of the pain and hurt we caused, but it weighs infinitely more than a candle. Perhaps the penitent person wore white to show remorse and to symbolize forgiveness. But what about the candle? What did it signify to them? As the practice continued from century to century, the powers that be replaced the candle with a white rod. The reasons are lost to time.

For us, let the candle we carry in our grief and shame, even amid the comments and faces of others, shine as a symbol of hope.

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How do we listen to and distinguish which shame is telling the truth?

Shame tackles and trips estranged parents from every direction. Sometimes, it ducks in and out of the shadows, whispers poison, sours our food, and steals our favorite candy. Other times, it whispers tiny lie after tiny lie until we lose track of the truth. Shame always waits for the wrong moment to burst onto the scene and change the entire plot. If that wasn’t scary enough, three different kinds of shame divebomb us like laser-guided missiles headed straight for our souls: toxic shame, godly shame, and cultural shame.

Cultural Shame

Cultural shame drags like a strip of toilet paper stuck to our shoes at a black-tie event. Cultural shame bleeds through our social media feeds whenever someone offers a hot take on a favorite restaurant or criticizes our must-watch TV shows. Our cultural shame whines, “Something is wrong with me because the things I am passionate about are hated by others. That means, I’m not accepted.” Related to estrangement, every time we are asked about our children, we see the mix of pity and fear in the eyes of the askers, as if they will catch the disease if they stand too close to us.

But we believe what they believe anyway.

Toxic Shame

Toxic shame transforms, when we least expect it, from a ladybug into a giant alien witch that seeks to remove our hearts and lungs with one flick of her wand. Related to estrangement, all of us blew it at some level with our children because we are human. Some among us perpetrated lasting harm against our beloved strangers. Our journey toward reconciliation will require us to—in humility—measure it, weigh it, and determine the sheer tonnage of it. When we call ourselves names, beat ourselves up, run away, freeze, or imagine the George Bailey of it all, toxic shame screams, “You are worthless, broken, and busted. You’re not worth the air you breathe.” And that’s before shame starts cussing. Yes, toxic shame sounds like the voice and vocabulary of the enemy of our souls.

But we beat ourselves up anyway.

Godly Shame

Godly shame is not an oxymoron. Call it conviction, because that is what it is. We feel it when a server gives us too much change and we, for a nanosecond, imagine how we’d spend it until the Holy Spirit clears His throat. He instructs with an even tone, “Don’t do that. Remember who God created you to be.” We know we’re not perfect. We know we made mistakes. We believe those mistakes drove us to depend upon God Almighty for the care and keeping of our children. We acknowledged our stewardship of His children.

We should feel the weight of this conviction.

In our daily lives, we often can’t tell which shame is making our stomachs do more flips than Simone Biles and Mary Lou Retton combined. And that right there, friends, is what makes being an estranged parent so difficult. All three types of shame spoon us in bed, ride shotgun on our morning commute, and hand us our soap in the shower. We must learn to diagnose and process our shame. We will not be prepared for a text exchange with our beloved strangers—let alone reconciliation—without being able to distinguish among the types of shame and respond well. Too many of us, for example, may confuse toxic shame with godly shame. That’s too easy because they may be communicating the same message in different ways. We can’t distinguish between the conviction of the Holy Spirit and the condemnation of our internal voices and the enemy. So, we may dismiss the reality and severity of what happened between our beloved strangers and us. Can we stop and taste our rotten teeth?

We will not be prepared for a text exchange with our beloved strangers—let alone reconciliation—without being able to distinguish among the types of shame and respond well.

At the same time, our doom scrolls continue marching. We try to dismiss cultural shame and thus numb our souls, putting us at risk of not feeling shame of any kind. We put our souls at risk of being calloused or seared to all kinds of shame. We’ll never be whole if we do.

In reality, the three voices of shame may be singing in dissonance to wake us up so that we can see ourselves correctly, begin or continue to seek forgiveness from God Himself, and prepare ourselves to make amends with our beloved children in His timing and grace.

Do you feel unsettled and like the melody of this devotional hasn’t resolved? Exactly.

Stay for a While

Read: 2 Corinthians 7. Try to identify all three kinds of shame in Paul’s writing. Next, look back into the previous chapters at the “promises” mentioned in verse 1. Then, dive deep into verses 9–11.

Pray: Thank God for shame. Thank Him for giving you a Geiger counter for sin. Then ask God to turn up your sensitivity so that you can be more aware and seek repair with others more quickly.

Write: Remain quiet for five minutes. Set a timer if you need to. Then write down any shame you feel, any shame at all. Come back at a later time, perhaps tomorrow, and work with God to classify your shame into the three categories.

Listen: “He Covers Me” by Steve Camp.

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A Review of Remarkably Bright Creatures for parents of estranged children.

Not since David Ogden Stiers invited us to meet the Beast have I enjoyed an opening movie monologue more than Alfred Molina’s disdain for third graders as Marcellus in the opening seconds of Remarkably Bright Creatures. Molina provided his voiceover without credit in this “remarkable” movie streaming on Netflix.

The film is based on Shelby Van Pelt’s debut novel of the same name. It spent more than a hundred weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, but somehow I missed it. The story glides along the coast of Washington State with the ease of an early Sunday morning paddleboarder. Nestled in the middle of town rests a small aquarium where we meet Tova, Cameron, and of course, Marcellus.

Sally Field plays Tova Sullivan, a seventy-year-old widow who lost her son to a tragic accident decades ago and her husband to illness in their retirement years. She works as the aquarium’s night janitor, scraping gum from the floor and removing finger- and tongue-prints from the windows of the displays.

In her solitude, she processes her feelings and the events of her days out loud with Marcellus, the aquarium’s star attraction, an aging giant Pacific octopus. His wise and self-important observations of humanity bring as many thoughtful nods as his humor brings laughs. He was injured by a wolf eel, or else a fisherman never would have snagged him and sentenced him to his glass prison.

Cameron, played by Lewis Pullman, rounds out our trio of wounded souls. He rumbles into town in the van his mother died in, carrying a ring that belonged to his unknown biological father and a chip on his shoulder almost as big as the hole in his heart.

I couldn’t help but watch this beautifully shot and delightfully written movie without seeing myself in its characters. Of course, that’s the power of a good story—we find ourselves in its pages or its frames. The movie is a study in grief—where it comes from, how it hangs on, where it surprises us, and what is required to keep living despite it. Grief is the cord that binds them all together, tighter than the extension cord Marcellus found himself wrapped in. For estranged parents, the film offers a chance to look at three aspects of our particular grief.

In one of the earliest lines in the movie, Marcellus observes about Tova, “We both dream of the bottom of the sea and what we lost there.”

Tova lost her son prematurely and is still walking through grief while also mourning the loss of her husband. She has not entered her son’s room in thirty years. She has preserved it exactly as it was. She can’t go in there. And bristles when others do. We recognize the impulse, don’t we? We are sometimes stuck in our grief, stuck remembering our children as they were when we were last connected. That is easy to do, because those are the photographs we see on our phones, our walls, or in the yellowing albums on our shelves. But time has passed. Which has changed more? Hairstyles and clothing choices, or the ways our estranged children—our beloved strangers—have grown, learned, and adapted to their worlds without us present? By the end of the film, Tova enters the room. That gives us hope that we, too, may one day be ready to move forward in our grief rather than preserve it like a room no one is allowed to enter.

Cameron never knew his father’s identity and barely knew his mother. When his mother died, he found the truth among her things. Pullman adroitly performs anger, disappointment, loss, longing, hope, and curiosity at once with the skill of a guitar virtuoso, which he is not. He wants to say things he has never been allowed to. He wants to receive something he feels he is owed. For us, the speck-and-plank principle is worth sitting with here: what might our beloved strangers need to say to us? And if we know—or even suspect—what those words might be, are we prepared to respond? Not defensively, but in a loving way that gives them the gift they need?

Marcellus grieves the loss of his rightful home. He dreams about the cave at the bottom of the sea, where he could look out and see the marvels of creation, experience God’s provision, and know the proper life and death of an octopus. Estrangement has disrupted our lives in a similar way. It changed not only the great days on the calendar, like birthdays and Christmas, but every ordinary day, every interaction with someone who innocently asks about our children, and every moment we wonder what others are saying about our parenting when we are not around. We are not in our natural habitat. We, like Marcellus, feel hopeless about getting back there. And like him, we sometimes make foolish decisions to force the issue.

The first time I watched the movie, I missed a key scene. Tova is trying to track down information about the year her son died, and wonders if one of her friends, one of the “Knit-Wits,” has the answer. I saw this scene as part of the rising action, but missed the wisdom of her friend. Tova apologizes for the umpteenth time and tries to leave Mary Ann (played by Kathy Baker who always seems to get great lines) alone. Mary Ann says,

“Will you stop?! You are not a burden. Tova, you’re my friend. This is what we do for each other. Do you know that I’m still not used to sleeping upstairs all by myself in that big bed? I keep to my side and every morning I wake up surprised that I’m alone. And now I have to leave my best friends and move to a city where I don’t know anybody but my grandchildren. I’m scared. I’m scared, Tova, and I really wish I could talk about this with you, but you are soooo busy trying not to be a burden to anyone that you’ve forgotten how to be a friend. I mean, what’s the point? What’s the point if you stop the business of living?”

Our lives didn’t end when our children went “no contact.” Yes, they changed. Yes, it hurts. Yes, in some ways, we feel frozen in time. But the days move on. We count them like Marcellus counted every day in the tank. And we, too, must not stop the business of living. We must walk, even with a limp, with our friends, so we can keep hope alive. Maybe, if we open our hearts and our stories to others, Marcellus might call us remarkably bright creatures, too.

What aspects of grief do you struggle with the most? Share your story in the comments.

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