Finding Treasure

My 16 year-old daughter boarded a plane (well, actually two) for Honduras today to go on her third mission’s trip.

In preparation for the trip, her youth mission team went on a weekend trip for team-building and visited a ministry in Atlanta called Bethel (an extension of Bethel in Redding, California).

Destination known only to parents and leaders, the team loaded a bus to the great the unknown. First arriving in Stone Mountain, they climbed the mountain and walked sky-ropes, conquering fears and learning to work as a team.

Later they learned of spiritual gifts and demonstrating God’s love to those around them. They learn to listen to His voice.

Then, these young people put words into action by “Treasure Hunting”.  Treasure, by definition, is any thing or person greatly-valued or highly-prized.

The group gathers and prays for The Lord to reveal specific things then they ask to people if they can pray for them. Throwing off inhibitions and facing fear of rejection to fulfill God’s call.

Often they are turned down. Some might think they are those crazy Jesus-freaky, weird religious people.

But for those of us who know Him, Jesus Freak is kind of complementary.  And oh, how I desire for people to understand that following Jesus is not religion. It’s so much more than rules and rituals. It’s showing His love.

When my daughter prayed she felt an impression of bright yellow but had no idea what this meant. A person in a yellow shirt?  McDonald’s ? (Golden arches. I love teenagers and how they think.)

She was turned down several times. She became discouraged.

But then…

And elderly couple accepted her offer and the group prayed for this retired minister and his wife who was losing her memory.

And at the end, the gentleman pulled my daughter aside and asked her to keep his grandson in her prayers.

His grandson is 17 and doesn’t speak. He has autism.

And there it was.  The open door. The not growing weary in well-doing.

With tears, she told this grandfather about her 12 year-old brother who didn’t speak and had autism and Down syndrome.



Then her friend told her to look down. As she stood on freshly-painted yellow lines at the entrance of Walmart, Jesus showed up in young people willing to be the hands and feet.

The group prayed for the man’s grandson.

Then, they began to pray and speak life over my son. My daughter’s little brother.

In a generation where death is spoken and mocking prevails, the compassion of the Father expressed through the sons and daughters brought hope.

What if my daughter had given up? What if she didn’t obey and told God it was just too hard and she was tired of rejection?

What if she worried more of what people thought than of what God thought?

“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth.”

I’ve said of my son, we must love him than what others think of him.

We must love God more than what others think of us.

And obey him when it doesn’t seem to be “happening” for us.

I’ve been in that place lately, wondering if what I care so much about even matters. Growing weary in my well-doing and wondering is this of importance to anyone and most importantly- to the Lord.

How often are we so close and give up? How many don’t let Him in and miss it.

God loves those most weak and vulnerable. I must press on. I must not stop speaking for those who cannot speak for themselves.

“And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.”

For they are highly- prized. His treasure.

I must not lose heart for those who His heart loves.

I often refer to my children as my treasures. His children are His treasures. Greatly-valued and highly prized.

Find it.




It happened today.

A slight blush shone through his little freckled cheeks and small tears hung in his blue eyes. His head hung a little low, and I knew what was coming.

“Mom, those kids were staring.”

His face couldn’t hide the mixture of embarrassment and self- ashamedness for being embarrassed by his older brother.

This kind of embarrassment only comes with having a stare-worthy brother.

As we parked for our end-of the-year celebratory lunch for Josh, I felt a twinge of angst. My eight-year old asked if we were taking the food home.

“Don’t you want to eat inside? What do you want to do? “I prodded and probed for his true “why” for asking and though he said it was fine to go in, but the truth was the proverbial elephant in the room.

The unspoken. The un-admittable.

Embarrassment.  And shame for being embarrassed.

According to Wikipedia:

Embarrassment is an emotional state of intense discomfort with oneself, experienced upon having a socially unacceptable act or condition witnessed by or revealed to others.

Joshua’s condition is considered socially unacceptable by some.

And though he does not know it, those who love him do.

His brother doesn’t want to feel this way.

But he’s eight. And things are a big deal at eight.

So as I tried to explain that they may just be curious, and even if they weren’t  we need to stand up for Josh and not worry about what others think, and people just don’t know what our lives are like and all the blah, blah, blah…

In my ramblings, I struggled between anger at those boys who were staring and my boy embarrassed about it and myself for feeling it sometimes myself.

I will clearly state that we not embarrassed by Joshua. We are not ashamed of him. Embarrassment creeps in rises up when those who do not understand him make us feel like he is less.

I needed to glimpse into my young son’s heart. As my own heart poured out sympathy and shared his pain so intensely, I felt Joshua’s pain unaware. My soul tore for each for different reasons.

“They think he’s weird. And that might mean they think I’m weird.”

“Well, I’m weird,” I said in some lame attempt to somehow make this whole “thing” better.

Then I told him that we needed to love Josh more than what people thought about him.

My oldest son, who often does with Josh what I cannot, had moments before pulled him out of the booth when he didn’t want to leave , put him in his car seat, then took him out of the van when we arrived home.

As we walked in, my soft-spoken and gentle son said to his youngest brother, “You know, I used to feel that way too.”

And I asked, “What changed your mind?”

He simply stated: “What you said.”

I can’t change people’s minds. I can’t know what they are thinking. I don’t know if they are curious or think my son is weird.

I don’t know if they are whispering prayers of thanksgiving that they don’t have a child like mine.

I could say I don’t care.

But I do.  I hate the stares. I hate them for all of us.

I hate that we look at people through our eyes instead of God’s.

And as I told my son in eight-year old language, “God loves all of us the same. God loves Josh as much as he loves you. God loves the homeless man drunk and smelly on the street as much as he loves the man who lives in a mansion.  We should all love each other like that. But unfortunately, people don’t.”

Later, we talked a little more and I asked him if he felt bad for being embarrassed and he said he was. Because he loves his brother.

But he said that people think Josh is stupid and they might think he’s stupid.

“So what can we do about it?” I asked.

I can love my son more than what people think about him.

Is that enough?

And what can we do about it?