It is funny to me, as a Mom of children who have special needs, that often folks say to me a phrase that grates on the ear, and yet to someone who isn’t daily dealing with the needs of people with disabilities, the speaker doesn’t even notice!  As a Special Needs Teacher, I had situations in the course of recording a student’s progress when I was required to write all the strengths of a child who had special needs in the “current performance” section of the Individualized Education Plan (IEP).  Usually it was so easy, because each child, uniquely made by God, has such strengths.  And, yet, as in one of our previous blog writings, the disability or disabilities go before them, and often a child or adult is known primarily by their disability or weakness, without any of the strengths noted.  You may have heard this when a baby is born, and has Down syndrome, and is referred to as a Down’s baby, instead of a baby who has Down syndrome.  Isn’t the child a baby first, and then the fact that the baby has Down syndrome secondary?

And, so it is with a switch, which is more like a shift in language referencing people who have a cognitive delay.  In the US, special needs is the term most commonly used to reference a person who has cognitive delays, but since special needs can also mean a physical or medical need, oftentimes one has to go on in the explanation past just the description “special needs” to encompass the type of disability a person or people group defined has.  So, around the world, the more acceptable term used for folks who have a developmental delay is “intellectual disability”.  Because we work with folks from all around the world, we want to be clear in who we are ministering to and with.  We specifically work with and serve people who have a developmental delay, a cognitive delay, which we define with the worldwide term, intellectual disability.

What’s in a name?  We think quite a bit.

Over the past 15 years, we have noticed a familiar pattern occurring when people initially meet our children.  They usually respond with questions, perhaps some concerns, and a typically fair amount of awkwardness.  It could be the way Mollie starts to immediately regale you with the last 20 meals she has enjoyed, all while only communicating by whispering and signing, or perhaps it is Samuel telling you with unsolicited detail about his many ailments, with the names and birthdays of each doctor who is working on ‘fixing’ him.  Or it could be the way Maggie will unceremoniously drag you out of your chair promptly at the end of church so that she may put the chairs away and the world again can be restored to order and she can get on to lunch!

To be certain, for the faint of heart, their wonderful oddities can certainly be off-putting, however, for those who are willing to brave their gauntlet and learn the wonderful subtleties and sensitivities of each, they will inevitably find in them a treasure quite rare.

Sam  genuinely believes every woman he has ever met is beautiful and will unbegrudgingly (and indeed unceasingly) declare it to them, until even those perhaps unaccustomed to such approbations will blush at the enjoyment of what must be the truth of it!  Not surprisingly then, he has as of this moment four young women who each claim he is their betrothed, and one has been waiting since Sam was four years of age, and she still has four to go, since he is only 14!

A simple walk through the local mall with our girls will give you a glimpse of what it must be like to be in the entourage of rock stars, since every 10-15 feet some teenager is yelling, “It’s Maggie” , “It’s Mollie!” or the more frequent, “look, it’s The Twins!”.  Like those accustomed to fame, the girls rarely take notice, however on occasion they will grant favor on their admirers by wishing them, “good game!”

But for those who are privileged and it is indeed a priviledge, to really get to know them, they count their relationship to Maggie, Mollie and Sam as one of the most important and satisfying in their lives.  And not without reason, for in them they find no guile, no pretense, and each of them exhibits a decided lack of awareness of all those weaknesses that you and I find so painfully blatent in ourselves.  To be with them is like getting to take a vacation from yourself!  There’s a coloquialism that asserts, “No matter where you go, there you are”, well, not when you are with our children, apparently the normal rules of physics seemed to be suspended.  Without hesitation or fear of my accustomed dramatic exxageration, I can freely declare that my happiest and the most gloriously un-self-absorbed times of my life have been while in relationship to a person with an intellectual disability.

But perhaps this should not surprise us.  Perhaps this is part of the inscrutable gift our gracious God has intended by creating some of us with intellectual disabilities, it is the gift of self-forgetfulness.  A gift Jesus speaks of when he declared to his disciples that there was “no greater love than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”  Self-forgetfulness.  Jesus of course was speaking of himself, the one of whom we are told, “for the joy set before him he endured the cross” and “did not consider equality with God something to be held on to, but humbled himself, taking on the very nature of a servant…”  Self-forgetfulness.

The problem, and too few seem to even realize it, is that you can not pursue your own agenda, and anothers,  you can not choose your future and theirs,  your life and their life.  We all choose at some point whose life we will forget; ours or theirs.

So who are you forgetting?

Hello Special Hope blog readers!  My name is Beth Bailey and I am an appointed missionary with SHN, and currently serving as Director of Operations Africa.  I am so excited to share with you bits and pieces of my story (or should I say God’s story in and through me)!  I’ll spare you a lot of the background details, and jump right into how I came to be a part of this ministry.

At the start of this fall, something began to stir in me. What I thought was a simple case of transitioning-out-of-college blues proved to be something deeper- a profound sense of restlessness. It wasn’t that I didn’t love all that I was doing, for I really did and still do. I simply started to feel like the life I was living wasn’t actually the one I was “meant” to live. And so I began asking the questions that people my age sometimes ask themselves- what am I doing with my life, what am I passionate about, how am I to accomplish my dreams, etc. I had no idea that as I began to ask these questions, I would come across an answer that would compel everything to change…

Everywhere we go, our noises go before us.  Teeth grinding, giggling,  constant chattering, repeated phrases (Mama happy, Mama happy, Mama happy, Mama happy, Mama happy!…..you get the idea), tongue and lip noises, and groaning sounds (even though they mean a child is happy and content).  Who ever thought that noises and sounds help to define who we are by our society?  We have now learned a lot about people from their reaction to our strange sounds in public. Other things that seem to expose the heart are people who have ongoing relationships with us, and how they respond to our family sounds, or odd sentence structure (when we going store?, or birthday what month is it?)  We have found that sometimes character can be seen in the reactions in grocery stores, or especially our local upscale, healthy organic grocery store (why is it that this spot is such a hard place for us to shop?).  Some jump away with a visceral reaction, some stop in their tracks, mesmerized by the free entertainment, others just gently drive their cart away, yet others turn and look with curiosity, and the group we love turns and looks at us, and smiles, some even will then talk with one of our children.  The rare, and I do mean very rare person will pursue an interaction even when our kids delay an answer, or are unclear in their speech.  We love those check-out people who don’t mind when Maggie takes the food right from their hand and bags it.  Some people can be so kind, but unfortunately this is definitely not the norm.

Many of you who know our kids know how much they love to go out and shop, and eat out, and go to hotels, pump gas, walk on our outside downtown mall or long outside shopping center, and just be in public. They love all the things to look at, the music, even the smells.  They love to dance at the store at the mall that booms the loud music out the doors. They love to pay the money to the person at the cash register.  There are days, though, where the interaction of the general public we meet is so discouraging that it makes me want to protect our kids from the unkind reactions, and just stay home all the time.

I’m struggling with imagining now how hard it could be when I am a Mom in Zambia, where it is widely accepted that it is a curse or a sign of your own bad moral conduct  to have a child who has special needs.  So, will our participation in community life  attract more attention, more comments than here?  I live in free speech, forward-thinking America, where, supposedly, children who have intellectual disabilities are a welcome part of society, and I have a hard time going out in public.  How much more challenging will it be for us then to be in a society where children who have intellectual disabilities are rarely ever seen in public, and therefore may not be seen as welcome additions.  Can you imagine what the noises of our family will sound like then?  What will our children reveal in the minds and hearts of the people of our new home?  And what will my responses to their responses reveal about me?

As we prepare to leave for a new continent, there are so many things to do, and so many areas in which to work, that to me, I feel like our family is on a tiny rubber raft in the middle of the ocean (and someone handed out scissors to all of our children!) with the waves tossing us up and down and all around. This is a picture that makes sense to me, since, in my head we are somewhere halfway between here and Africa, which I believe, is some place in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.

I know, and am convinced, that God’s plan for us is to go to a new continent to care for orphans with intellectual disabilities. But that doesn’t make the preparation any quicker, or any easier! I find myself thinking, quite often, that if God calls us, wouldn’t it be great if he would also do the fixing up of the house for selling, packing of stuff, figuring out what needs to stay and what needs to go, and finding all the health care needs our family has, as well as the myriad other details we need to do each day? I’m sure I will look back on this time as good preparation, and solidification of God’s call on our lives, but right now, while we are in the middle of it, the overwhelmingness of each day is off the charts.

I am so thankful that in God’s good providence, He has provided people to encourage us, help us organize, clean, fix plumbing, help us with computers, counsel, address letters, and many other small items that stack up into a Seuss-like picture of a Wuzzle, Nuzzle, or Kafluzzle with 26 appendages all holding up a spinning plate. Those folks who are doing one little detail certainly feel like God’s grace to us as they remove one plate, and take it home with them! I look forward to the day when I have no more American plates left to spin, and the African ones start. I can’t imagine this could be true, but I have heard that African plates spin much slower than American ones, and at this moment, that is a joy-filled thought.

I look forward longingly to the time when we are actually walking on African soil, ministering to a parent who needs encouragement, or training orphanage workers who will begin to love and care for children who otherwise would have no attention, food, or a home. At that point, I do not think the seas will be any calmer, or make my head spin a any less. I have no false illusions, after living my life to this point, with all God has allowed and brought into my life to love me, grow me, and always remind me that He is God and there is no other, that the sea will be calm and storm-free. But, I am convinced that, if God is calling me, there is no safer place for me to be than on the swells.
“Sometimes he calms the storm with a whispered ‘peace be still’,
He can settle any sea, but it doesn’t mean He will,
Sometimes He holds us close and lets the wind and waves go wild,
Sometimes He calms the storm and other times He calms His child.”

It does seem to make all the difference when you do know “what kind of man is this, that even the wind and the waves obey him”!

Holly

*Worship song by Scott Krippayne,  Sometimes He Calms the Storm.

The first time I saw her she was crouched down outside of her house which was comprised of a short structure no more than 7 or 8 feet high with the outside dimensions of 10 ft. by 10 ft. at the most.  It was made of a combination of “reclaimed” brick, scrap wood and pieces of tin.  She was crouching in the dirt outside the door, playing a game that seemed to somewhat resemble jacks but was played with rocks and no ball.  As we got closer I could see that her feet, legs, hands and arms were covered in a thin layer of the ubiquitous red African earth.  I’d been told by several missionaries while I was there that Africans don’t see dirt.  They don’t comment on it or fret about it.  It is just there, like oxygen, which even after my brief stay, I realized is the wisest, most sensible course of action, because there is simply no avoiding it.

She stood to look at me, and immediately I recognized those perfectly proportioned slightly diminutive features, and beautiful almond-shaped eyes of someone who has Down syndrome.  She was wearing what appeared to be a man’s large white oxford buttondown shirt with no sleeves.  After looking at me for a moment or two, her features became surprised and she ran quickly into the house and slid the makeshift door closed.  The village orphan worker chuckled and tried to say carefully, ” I am not sure she has seen many…” and then he paused, perhaps not quite sure how he should finish the sentence, so I pointed to my ballcap and said “Red Sox fans?”, and he said, “something like that!”, and laughed.

But even before we could get to the door and call out our presence, the door was being slid open, and out stepped a woman who was wearing what looked to be the exact same outfit we had seen on the girl only moments before – the well-worn sleeveless white man’s buttondown shirt!  She was pulling gently behind her the girl we had seen outside the door, who was now dressed in a beautiful short-sleeved blue dress with ruffles and pleats around the skirt.  Her face, hands, and feet had also all been wiped clean (and all within the time it took us to walk the the forty or fifty feet to their door!), so, it may be that Africans don’t recognize dirt, but evidently mothers still do!

We said our introductions, and asked if we could sit for a moment.  “I work with children who are special, like yours, and I’d like to ask you some questions.” She was cautious about her response, but agreed, and went inside to bring out two makeshift chairs.  Since she appeared a little suspicious (perhaps… she was NOT a Red Sox fan?), I pulled out the picture of my family as I had now done repeatedly and had always noticed an immediate easing of tensions and increasing of openness once they saw I was a father of three adoptive children with intellectual disabilities.  On this occasion, however, it seemed to produce the opposite effect.  She gripped the picture with two hands, then began to look carefully from the picture of my girls to her own daughter, back and forth, back and forth, until tears welled up in her eyes.

Being a man not peculiarly perceptive when it comes to emotions (is that statement redundant?), I forged ahead with my questions hoping that conversation would somehow distract her from whatever painful feelings the picture had produced.  So began my interview, a series of rapid-fire questions beginning with her health during pregnancy, childbirth, developmental milestones, etc.  The purpose of each is to help give me both an overarching picture of her daughter’s development but also help identify any potential concerns or red flags.  At some point in the interview, however, I finally lifted my eyes from my clipboard, where I was furiously writing her responses, and I saw the anguish on this mother’s face, and her tears that could no longer be held back.

Before I could even ask what was so troubling her, she blurted out a question, half speech/ half sob and completely disconnected from anything we had just been discussing, “How fast can your children read?!“  I was so taken aback by this emotionally packed nonsequitor that I think I simply looked down meaningfully and mumbled something intentionally incoherent (I’ve not been married 20 years for nothing!).

Quieter, but still in between sobs she confessed, “my daughter reads slowly, much slower than other children…  I think it’s my fault.” The picture was getting clearer. I asked, timidly, “what does she read?” And her sobs halted long enough for her to look up at at me with a face that showed she thought my question was utterly ridiculous (I have always been amazed that all the women I have ever known all have the remarkable ability to pause whatever deep emotional current they were overcome by in order to declare how ridiculous I am), “Books!” she exclaimed, “books, of course!”

Now it was my turn to give a look of incredulity.  “Chapter books?” I asked, trying to hide the suspicion in my voice. “Yes”, she said with exasperation, “of course the books have chapters”. I waited a moment, for she was trying to catch her breath and wipe her eyes.  When she finally looked up at me again, I held her eyes for a moment and then spoke intentionally very slowly so this could seep into her heart, “my children can’t read chapter books! They know some words, and all their letters, but my children can’t read like your daughter. “   Immediately, her hands went up to cover her face.  The tears had started again, but there was something else there in her eyes, something that looked a lot like someone trying desperately to suppress laughter.  The fight did not last long, for it was within less than a minute that the laughter won, and all she could do was try to stifle the volume with her hand and attempt to stay upright on her rickety chair.

For an instant, but thankfully, I don’t think my face betrayed me, I was honestly offended that she would laugh at my childrens’ inability to read at the level her child could.  But it was that thought, or to be more accurate, the emotion with which I felt that thought, that finally made me see what I had been missing all along.  She saw my girls in the photograph dressed in their pretty dresses, so similar in features to her own and she assumed that her lack in economics, opportunity and education would reveal themselves when I compared her girl to mine.  Therefore each question of my interview seemed to her to only establish more completely how stunted her daughter must be; born in a hut, no early diagnosis, no physical therapy, no occupational therapy, no speech therapy, had never seen a developmental pediatrician, never seen a pediatrician at all, no, no, no.   And although I never thought this even for a moment with her, I imagine she added to that list of “no’s”, “has a good mother” – NO!

But for the very reason that she is a good parent, she felt that all her daughter’s lacks or weaknesses were her fault.  Which was why her daughter not being able to read as fast as other children weighed on her so greatly, it was just one more NO.  The “no” that broke her mothers heart.  Not coincidently then, it was my parental “no” that brought her consolation.  For all our girls’ many advantages, for all their “yes’s”, we too, had our “no’s”.  I realized this and it was easy to laugh with her, rejoicing over her daughter’s “yes”.

Something special happened after that.  We talked at some length but the interview was over.  We were now just two people desperately wanting to be good parents to the children we absolutely adored, who in God’s providence all happened to have Down syndrome.

Perhaps it was due to my natural philosophical bent or my years of pastoral experience, or maybe I simply was not listening well as this desperate Zambian mother spoke to me concerning her son (that would be Holly’s guess, since wives often know their husbands don’t listen to everything they say!). Regardless of the reason, when, amidst the barrage of questions she was firing at me she asked, “Why is my boy different from other children?”, I immediately launched into an extended explanation of everything from the nature of the fallen world; to the inscrutable will of God, to the weakening of chromosomal bonds as we age.

After some minutes I concluded my expansive and nuanced “explanation”, and she thanked me, whether for what I said or merely for choosing to stop, I can’t be sure. She then looked at me very intently for quite some time and at first, I thought my insightful dialogue must have prompted some hitherto unconcieved deeper query, then I recognized the way she was looking at me was just the same way my twin girls look at me when they realize I have completely misunderstood their very simple request. So, in this way, she addressed me again with the same question but much slower and louder, “Whhhyyy..iiiss…mmmyyy…booyyy…diiifffeeerrreeennntt…ffrroommm…othhherr…chhhiildrrreennn?”

It was embarrassing to put this poor woman through such exaggerated attempts to be understood but thankfully I finally got it. Her question to me was not the meta-physical “why” but the pragmatic. Why is his speech difficult to understand? Why at sixteen is he still happy to have me tell him the same childrens’ stories over and over? Why can’t he write well or do math like other children? It was then that I realized that she did not know the very specific genetic condition that stood at the root of many of her son’s unique attributes, or in her words, “differences from other children”. So I went over to her son, and picked up his hand, and showed her the deep crease that crossed the palm, I remarked on the shortened length of his fingers and toes, I drew her attention to his handsome almond- shaped eyes with the unique fold at the inner corner, and, finally, I remarked on his adorable little ears that were set just lower than the typical ear is set. And so, I said, “your son has a genetic condition called Down syndrome, or Trisomy 21. To my surprise, the moment I said that, her son, who had been fairly quiet throughout my visit so far, proclaimed loudly, “yes, yes!”, and he smiled a huge goofy Down syndrome grin, like he had been waiting for 16 years not to be labeled, but to be understood.

Having spent so many years here in the US fighting against labels as boxes in which my children have been placed, I realized that day that sometimes a label can be the beginning of a framework to better understand someone we deeply love. Because that day, that Zambian Mother didn’t get a diagnosis for her child, but a way to begin to understand all the wonderful ways he was made.

Not according to the book of Job!

For the first 28 chapters Job is under the continued harassment and accusation of his friends that the cause of his epic suffering must be the presence of extraordinary sin in his life. In Chapters 29 and 30 Job shares the sweetness of the “friendship of God” prior to the cataclysm of pain and loss that now engulfs him. And In contradiction to their repeated assertions of his unrepentant wickedness he makes unhesitating declarations and descriptions of his actual positive holiness (though he never declares himself to be without sin).

Of the many striking and theologically significant aspects of the book of Job, this is one that I think is the most consistently overlooked- how Job defines what it means to be right before God. And I think the reason why we overlook it is because Job does not describe what it means to be a “good” person or righteous man or woman in the way we expect it or to perhaps to put it more pointedly, the way we would like him to define it. For when Job defends the righteousness of his life, which God has already declared of him (Job 1), he does not describe his prayer life, theological knowledge, how frequently he fasts, church offices he holds, etc., but his entire argument is based on how he has dealt with and cared for the orphan, the afflicted, and the needy.

“because I delivered the poor who cried for help, and the fatherless who had none to help him. The blessing of him who was about to perish came upon me, and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy. I put on righteousness, and it clothed me; my justice was like a robe and a turban. I was eyes to the blind and feet to the lame. I was a father to the needy, and I searched out the cause of him whom I did not know.” (Job 29:12-16).

In one of the most emotionally moving scenes of the entire book; Job begs God to act on his behalf for “does not one in a heap of ruins stretch out his hand, and in his disaster cry for help?’ (Job 30:24). In the insanity and desperation of his suffering, Job contrasts the righteousness he has shown the afflicted and the lack of goodness Job feels displayed in God’s silence. “Have I not wept for the one whose life is hard? Was not my soul grieved for the needy?” (Job 30:25)

Could you sum up your life that way? Would that be how you would define righteousness? If you were making an appeal to God on account of your right standing before Him, your “goodness” – is this what you would say? Perhaps one of the most important lessons we need to learn from Job is not only patience (perseverance) in the midst of difficulty, but also a passion for those whose whole lives are difficult.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), 2 out of every 10 people worldwide have an intellectual or physical disability. That is approximately 650 million people. They further estimate that 80% of people with a disability live in the developing world. According to Special Olympics International there are an estimated 200 million individuals worldwide with an intellectual disability.

What I would be interested in knowing is how in the world did they come up with those figures, since in most of sub-Saharan Africa, as an example, children who are born with an intellectual or physical disability were specifically not registered at birth. So, therefore, they could not possibly be counted, if statistics were counted merely from birth records. Census attempts would likely prove just as fruitless since nearly every African home, village, or compound, by cultural norm will deny the presence and existence of a child, or children with disabilities.

By way of anecdote, I visited a compound in Zambia, accompanied by a long-time community leader, and asked the leader where the families of intellectual disabilities that we could visit were. Though it was a compound of over 10,000 people, he said that he didn’t know of any, but suggested that there was an elderly woman who had lived in the compound far longer than he, and perhaps she would know if there had been any. As I met the woman, I again asked her my question, “were there any children in the compound who had disabilities?” And she quickly answered, “no, we don’t have any of those”.

Considering that perhaps my request was unclear, I went on to describe in detail the nature and kind of various disabilities and children that I work with, and once again, she said “no, we don’t have any of those”. I was completely shocked. I was perplexed. Here was a statistical miracle. In a compound of 10, 000 of some of the poorest in Zambia, not a single individual could be found who was disabled! Statistically speaking, there should be over 2,000 individuals!

Not knowing what else to do, I took out a picture of my family, and said to the woman, “this is remarkable, an entire compound and no one with disabilities! In my family, I have three.” She took the photograph from my hand, looking at each of my children who have Down syndrome, and finally looked up at me and said, without any explanation, “there are three families who live right over there who have children like yours”.

I visited those three families. In each of these three families, it followed the same pattern. The initial denial in the doorway, the careful looking at our family photo, and then the very kind welcome into their home. Each of these families supplied us with more families, and within an hour we had families seeking us, asking “are you the man whose children have disabilities?”. According to the families I spoke with, the WHO’s estimation of 2 out of every 10 was far lower than their experience in this compound. And, yet, they were invisible. Invisible, even if you were looking for them. Invisible, perhaps until it was clear you were one of them.

On my flight home from Africa, I “just so happened” to be seated next to a consultant with one of the largest child health and welfare organizations in the world. And, I shared with him my experience in the compound. He agreed that the statistics they have for children with disabilities have no basis on actual children with disabilities.

The tragic reality is that the phenomena described here portrays not really a weakness or poor methodology in statistical representations, but belies far greater consequences for children and individuals with disabilities. First, the routine practice in sub-Saharan Africa of not registering births of children who have disabilities means that they have no formal or legal status. They can’t get a passport, have no legal or political rights, and are often then denied medical and financial assistance. Second, their is virtually no accountability for caretakers, for both community and international aid and welfare organizations often have no knowledge of the true nature of their care and condition, since they are hidden away.

As the old phrase goes, ‘out of sight, out of mind’. But perhaps that’s really how we like it.

I think for most of us, if we considered listing the necessary attributes of God revealed in the Bible, that is, what Scripture declares to be the fundamental requirements of God’s nature and character for Him to be God, the One and Only God, these would be largely the same. We would all affirm that God must be holy, God must be all-powerful, He must be all-knowing, and so on.

However, I’ve been rereading Jonathan Edwards’ work, The End for Which God Created the World (see our Great Reads section if your interest is piqued), and was struck again by his argument that one of the necessary attributes of God is that He must be perpetually and pervasively happy. If God is not happy and able to keep Himself so, we can have no confidence in His ability to bring any of our lives, then, to a happy conclusion. If He cannot behold His own creation, and the glory of His own being, and find everlasting delight, how can we ever possibly hope to?

And so he argues in his unique, Edwardsian fashion, (which is appropriate, since he is Edwards!), piling argument upon argument, and scripture upon scripture, until you finally succumb to the avalanche of both God’s Word and reason that God indeed must necessarily be happy.

Once I dug myself out, I was struck by a similar aspect of God’s character that we typically would not name, but I believe to be absolutely indispensable. For most who have considered the plight of the orphan and the afflicted, you know, it does not take long to pull together the dozens upon dozens of passages in Scripture where God speaks on their behalf. And perhaps you’ve even noted with delight and approval God’s consistent declaration that He is “the God of the orphan and the widow”. But have you considered what all these passages and promises about the orphan have to do with you and me?

In the book of Hosea God provides us with one of the first “reality” series ever devised. The purpose here is not gross voyeurism, but a living portrayal of Israel’s betrayal to her husband, the Lord and God of all. Through Hosea and Gomer Israel’s persistent and grotesque adulteries to the gods of the nations is paraded publicly before the people. God’s judgements are repeated throughout the book until at last Israel is appealed to return to God, “to take words with you, and to return to the Lord”. (Hosea 14:2) They are to say to God “Assyria shall not save us, we will not ride on horses, and we will say no more, ‘our god’ to the work of our hands. In You the orphan finds mercy”. (Hosea 14:3)

Here comes the key part. Notice the flow of their argument. First they promise to not trust in other nations. (Therefore, also the gods of other nations.) Nor will they ride on horses, which refers to their trusting in armies to protect them or save them. Finally they declare they will turn away from idols.

But what is the ground of their hope? On what basis can they possibly appeal to God to hear, heal, and forgive them one more time? It can’t be based upon covenant performance or faithfulness for as we have seen, the entire book is an expose of their scandalous infidelities. Nor, they have found, that they can place any hope on merely clinging to their covenantal status as “God People” (see Hosea 1:9).

The answer of course, is in the final phrase of 14:3, “In you the orphan finds mercy.” Okay, so at first glance their argument might look a bit obtuse, but let me try to focus it in for us. If God delights to show mercy (hesed: lovingkindness, grace) to the orphan who has no greatness to commend him, no position that can be leveraged to God’s benefit, but cry out to God simply because they have nowhere else to go, so, then, can we. For we learn that grace is not dependent upon position or performance, but rather a coming to Him broken and empty and wanting no other options but Him.

So, why do we need a God who favors the weak? For the basis of our hope rests solely on one peculiar aspect of God’s nature; His preference for the weak. Thanks be to God.

Hos. 14:3c